Tis but a dream I scream I scream
My body weak and weary

I lay in bed with throbbing head
And thoughts dark and dreary

I sing the song, What's wrong? What's wrong?
Am I left forgotten?

This be said, face turn red
Stomach spoiled and rotten

Demons spawn, be gone, be gone
As they take my breath

Be pearly gate or hell as fate
I've come to my death

god made stars
for starving poets

when they look up
they forget
how hungry they are

    ~mce

By the time we reached the final act
our dialogues turned to whispers
warmed us the pledge to the silent pact
we would be rehearsing under the stars

dew would damp the players' cloth
all but the two were gone
who were tied by the burning oath
must shape their roles to perfection

owls hooted in the night's shadow
world slept behind shut door
we were numbed to the time's flow
by the sounds of claps encore

one the alien had blood thick green
that only the ****** revealed
when unbeknownst was cut his skin
by the other soon to be killed

that time now ***** to yellowed page
long back fate set him free
my skin is now bold in age
he's evergreen in memory.

this simplicity
of being
not afraid
to be caught
with wind
in your pockets

She rose through adversity
And made a name for herself
Broke through barriers
And received valuable help
With more confidence
She is able to lift her voice
No one will ever stop her
She is able to stand and rejoice

Poetry is art
      Poetry is visual

Poets can see the words

The way a play write
Can see the actors on stage
       with every line he writes

The way a musician
Can see the notes dance on air
       with every key she plays

The way a sculptor
Can see the final sculpture
       with every cut of their knife

The way a painter
Can see the waves of the ocean
        with every stroke of blue
                  on a blank canvas

Poetry is visual
      Poetry is art
            Poets are artists
       They write **from the heart