My poems are garbled thoughts moulded into a predictable structure

                                                      ­if
                   i
                                     change
                                                          ­     what
             is
                            expected



does that mean my writing is worthy of praise?

Maybe I'll find
                          my answers
                                                  at the bottom
                                
                                                                           of this bottle

A man manipulated
By his mind
Builds a fortress of solitude
To keep his self doubt
Unchallenged
He seeks the comfort
Of a farmiliar demon
Ignoring the afflictive
Advice of an angel

She dragged a pencil
On what once was a mighty tree
Hoping her bottled emotions would burst
Into a beautiful image
But it's hard to sketch a picture
When only words can convey the idea

Take it off
That idiotic disguise of false-courage
You cascade over your striking face
I want to know you
The real you
Not the character you perform
In the production of uncertainty
I know it's not you
I can see it in the piercings of your mask
The eyes
They're exposed
Telling a silent story