Here I am contemplating life and death because
I often write poems that are sad
They come from my anger, my hatred, my pain...
But often enough, good things come from the bad

I write of my miserable existence
And of how I long to be held in your embrace
Of what lies ahead and what was left behind
I write about how many things are usually replaced

My poetry is brewed, so to speak I suppose
In this head of mine, where i think and ponder
Where I lust and desire and want and wish
And where to thoughts of you I tend to wander

So here I am, still writing of the sorrow
Hoping somehow these words will change your mind
I am writing a poem that isn't sad, to simply prove
I may not be normal, but I'm the normalest you'll find

.
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's the tears that trickle with radiance through words.
     It's a treasure trove that hides but longs to
     be found.
          It's a book shelved high that wants to
          be read.
               It's the freest of all birds caged but
               unbound...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't beat to the capable strokes of the artist.
     It doesn't pump in the most vibrant of
     colours.
          It doesn't wield a paintbrush to
          translate its thoughts.
               But it can see through the eyes of
               painters...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't conform to the conventional parameters of lyrics.
     It doesn't bind itself to the requirements
     of musical harmony.
          It doesn't follow the conventions of
          genres.
               But it sings its voice loud without
               restrictions of melody...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's an open secret, that whispers in metaphoric codes.
     It's an exploding universe, that merges
     back into galaxies.
          It's a sought after painting, that boasts
          of unfathomable beauty.
               It's an everlasting song, that echoes
               within the poet that embodies...

Hours of darkness began to sigh
As daylight, no longer in sight

Gushing of water flowing placidly in the stream
Oh-what a lovely evening, to dream

My feet drag me to the wilds
The feeling of exhilaration like a child

Where the bleak twigs creak
And the frigid weather kisses my cheeks

Solitude state under the ethereal sky
How I wish you nigh

But this lonesome brought me to a place,
I call it Nowhere because my journey isn't over
For I'll always be a wanderer

.
     ...is a fragile little thing,
     that most tend to overlook.
     Small word with a **** big meaning.
     Some may uphold it; some may
     conveniently have it mistook...

Trust...
     ...is in the grasp of the unknown
     stranger,
     that helps you up when you've fallen
     down.

Trust...
     ...is the pact between you and the cab
     driver,
     as he takes you to where you want to
     be, across town.

Trust...
     ...the bough on which your swing does
     sit.
     Pray that it doesn't break as you enjoy
     its joyous ride.

Trust...
     ...your cook, hoping in your food he
     doesn't spit...
     Especially when you've provided
     feedback that scuffed his pride.

Trust...
     ...lays exposed when the keys to your
     house you surrender,
     to your neighbour who'd keep an eye
     while you're away on a retreat.

Trust...
     ...exists latent in the open palm of your
     caregiver...
     As a child you'd take his hand so he'd
     ferry you safely across the street.

Trust...
     ...is the unspoken oath that I had thought
     we both held sacred...
     When I spilled the contents, my heart
     couldn't bear much longer.

Trust...
     ...meant nothing when you took it all for
     granted,
     when you weakened and succumbed...
     ...and then shared with another...

How will a little child
open his eyes
in a world
that is filled with
lies?
Where unheard go
a mother's,
a wife's,
a daughter's
cries.