The instructor said,
    Go home and write
    a page tonight.
    And let that page come out of you—
    Then, it will be true.
I wonder if life could really be that simple?
I am twenty, confused, and clinically depressed
I went to therapy, then to inpatient, and now I’m home
to this house that I’ve known since birth,
Depression is not the only thing I feel, so it is not all of me.
But the path down this road has been long, and dark,
Going up hills and making turns, that got me lost sometimes,
But I’m starting to see the light of day,
Everything happens for a reason they say.
My journey isn’t over yet, but I’ll tell you what I’ve learned:

I’m not easy to understand, but nobody is,
at twenty, my age. But I know I am not  just what
I feel and see and hear. Instead I am also  what
I think, and say, and do. Aren’t we all?
The things that define me, aren’t only in my head.
They can be read, and heard, and seen,
My words spoken out loud, or written down are
The decisions I make, such as letting go, or fighting;
Telling a truth, or a lie;  giving, or taking
I guess having depression doesn’t make me a good or bad person
Despite my disorder, I make ordinary choices.
So will my definition of me be alright,
Even if it means, I’m not always delighted to be here.
But I will be here
Just like you are, instructor.
You might be happy with life---
Yet you have your troubles, just as I have mine.
That’s human.
Perhaps you don’t want to be a part of some sad occasions,
Nor do I often want to be a part of them either.
But we are, and that’s life!
As I learn from my mistakes and hard times,
I guess you learn from yours—
although you’re older—and wiser—
and I have less life experience than you.

love is like a seed inside you it will grow
when it begins to bloom then your love will show.

its just like a flower that becomes a rose
sends warmth through your body
and a twinkle to your toes.

it will make you smile like a flower in the sun
like the the seed of life your love as just begun

It's not the fear that brings
about the images the painter
paints.
The words the writer writes.
The shapes the sculptor
sculpts.
Or the sounds the
musician brings.

It's the knowledge that there is more
than the trash filled gutters.
The windowless bars and
loveless street girls.
The foreign commerce you are
expected to buy and the life
you've been trained to sink
yourself  into while still dreaming
of oh so much more.

Some gifts shine and cast rainbows
in the light and some gifts expose the
darkness we all know is there but still
refuse to see.

The masses look to make a Hero
out of the artist.
They set prices on the works
and attempt to understand the
view.

This craft here comes in waves.
All there is to do is
try to keep up with the demands
of this ongoing battle
for time.

Time to sacrifice more
to the machine.
Less time for all the bad things.
More time for the gift.

My need to shy away from
the crowds in order to
create hand woven magic in the
dark.
The need to challenge Platos
view.
The need to feel the numbing
cold of Dantes Hell.
The need to live out my days
in Bukowskis harsh vision
of the world.

The gears of their clocks
keep grinding.
Grinding like a junk yard tweekers
teeth.

My remaining pages remain
unfilled and the sun has already
set on my tomorrow.

I wonder what i'll have learned
by the time I meet my death..
Will every second have counted,
or only the last breath?
Money is nothing to the departed.
And when the day is done and gone,
nobody finishes like they started.
What can I take if i can't carry it physically.
And where do I go when i am dead?
Out of all the lessons i've learned
can I remember any without a head?
Am I nothing or everything,
as I walk on earth in the flesh?
I am living everyday wondering,
if i'm just elements among the rest.
Tho I believe in heart-something like soul,
and against this there is no contest.
The wealthy don't have diamonds and gold,
but in wisdom they are blessed.
So I take pride in what I know,
and explore with the curiosity of a child.
I'm trying to ****** the days,
and overcome the wiles.
There must be more to discover,
cause how will the stars continue to shine?
After the morning I don't wake to another,
will I see a divine sun rise in the other side?
The end might be years away,
but it's always lurking near by.
It might even happen today,
or right now, or within the hour.
I don't know and I don't want to,
Some answers are as the thorns of a flower,
some knowledge must be felt or experienced.
There must be some greater objective.
With all I sought I found what best did,
put what's important into perspective.
Things that can never fall apart,
and that i will no longer let be neglected.
Cause i've found the truth in my heart,
I am a soul being perfected.

I'm not very good at anything
Though I am a perfectionist
Finding myself below the best
In everything I do
I tell myself I don't need the satisfaction of Others
And that is the most substantial lie
I have ever told

Thy greatest poets
Aren't the one's who put all their money into their work's,
The greatest poets
Art the ones who art poor
With no loot
Not putting their work out there
Just writing poems in a secret notebook
For their eyes only!!!