A little girl, blond as can be,
Sits in her shed, staring mindlessly.
She thinks of an idea and tells her dad,
"My shed needs painting,
So it won't be so sad."
They worked on her shed, day and night,
Until her dad tucked her in bed,
Nice and tight.

The next day, the little girl sprang from her bed,
She ran to her yard, smiling at her shed.
The once old wooden shed,
Now had a lovely smile.
The little girl hugged it saying,
"Sorry it took a while."
From the early bird's chirp,
To the friendly owl's hoot,
The young girl played in her shed,
Like a chick in its coop.

One day the little girl began to cry,
For her elderly father was soon to die
The shed's smile soon started to fall.
The young girl it once knew,
Had gotten so tall.
It tried to hold up its rusty old boards,
Trying to cheer her up,
Like a guitarists with the perfect chords.

One day the young girl, now a woman,
Walked out to the shed, and gave it a hug,
Just like she always did.
She cried and talked to her shed,
Explaining that her father was dead.
Yet she thanked her father,
for building that shed.
It always cheered her up,
With its smile painted wide.
When she was happy, it stood up tall.
Yet when she was sad,
It leaned to one side.

One day she came home,
With a man by her side,
With her white dress flowing,
She happily cried.
The shed had only one problem
With this man by her side.
When th girl came visiting,
Her tears were already dried.

The years passed by,
As the couple had a child.
Though the shed grew tired,
The weeds grew wild.
With the years racing by, the shed fell down,
It's boards and bolts,
cast and scatteredalomg the ground.

The husband wanted those old bolts rid,
As he kicked the rusty boards,
They scattered and skid.
The girl looked at the rusty pieces of shed,
And smiled simply shaking her head.
Why get rid of such beautiful wood,
When we can make a baby bed?

The shed would've leaped out of the air,
Its joy and happiness,
Relieved by her care.
So the baby slept with its crib and mobile,
On the side of th crib, was the shed's big smile.

If struggles are frightening
What does that make life?

Is life not full of struggles?
Then how is life,
Not always frightening?

There has so be something
Other than struggles
That keep us
From living in fear

If struggles are scary
Then life is a horror story
Struggles around every bend

Is this proof..
That joys really do exist?
Despite our sorrowful poems?
Despite out lovesick hearts?
Despite our crave for more?

Then again,
One might twist that

One could say,
That if joys are stars
Within the night
Then life is a galaxy

Full of stars and Suns
With orbiting bases
All around them
Surrounding them
With protection

What is life to you?
Will you decide
To watch
That horror story inside
In the dark
Or will you be adventurous
And look beyond a screen
Playing out our fears
And simply gaze
At all the joys in the darkness

His deep intense gaze
Never wavering either side
Locked upon his target
No, his enemy can't hide

An instantaneous moment
And an arrow's locked into place
His enemy frozen in fear
For no blade can wound his face

The metal pierced its skin
Before his quiver ceased to shake
His pale blue eyes satisfied
As he watched his enemy quake

His tunic sways in triumph
His confidence never wavers
As he returns to his home
To the woman of whom he favors

The day of the war was upon us. The air which was burdened by every man's heartbeat upon the approaching enemy, thudding louder and louder. Battle cries threatened to burst through my ears. The battle has begun. Sweat drenched my brows as blade came into contact with another. The muscles in my body intensifying with every possibly fatal blow. The screams of agony soon blurred out as we pushed forward. The ground pounding as the air surrounding us was thick with the all too familiar scent of crimson. Every man's eye was now numb watching brother after brother fall, never to rise again. Yet we push on as even the sun slinks away in retreat. We will go on. No matter how long it takes, we will go on.

The days go on one at a time. All the people move on day by day forgetting the images their minds captured moments before. Yet the poet's mind never moves on. Things are merely added to the ongoing thoughts. Many men and women may pass by things every day such as a wooden park bench, a bird's nest, or an old home, never thinking anything of them. Yet the poet sees something different every time. The ordinary mind may see the old park bench as a nuisance as they are walking to the buss station to work every day. Yet the poet sees it for its full potential. They see the uneven legs, the scratched, evenly carved, oak wood, the rusting metal, and the rough texture, as something beautiful, almost alive. They wonder of all the people who have sat on its wooden seat. An artist with delicate hands. A young man flexing his muscles for any passing female. A little girl holding her daddy's hand. A warrior whose eyes have seen much more than most human beings could bear. The never-ending mind of a poet stays lost in thought, never wavering. The mind of a poet never truly has one base for their way of thinking. One day, they may see this world as a trap, oxygen merely a barrier to what they could never achieve. Yet then again, the poet may see the world as a welcoming, enjoyable place to be with all its beauty. But most of all, the poet's mind is never readable, never predictable. No one understands the mind of a poet, even other poets, which could be the cause for some poet's downward look on life. For they are incredible works of art, displayed with pen and paper, giving the world the only glimpse of the poet's mind it will ever receive.

My weakness is kindness
I live to serve
And if you try and stop me
You've got some nerve

I will love you and care for you until I fall apart
Yet your words burden me
Like a dagger to the heart

You cling to me
Like I'm you're only hope
Yet my mission had failed
I simply wanted you ,alone, to cope

Alone I knew you could make it
On your own I knew you were strong
Yet I helped you anyways
Not knowing it was wrong

You became dependent on me
Like a fish to the sea
Yet I knew it was bad for you
I had to leave

The only way you would make it
Was if you were on your own
Yet I stayed anyways
Should've known I was prone

The little girl grins with glee
As she runs outside squealing
"Daddy come on! I bet you can't catch me!"

The dad chuckling as he walked out the door
As the little girl yells
"Come on! Once more!"

Looking back at her dad
Not noticing the street
All the neighbors now heard
The pidder-patter of her little feet

Then suddenly that familiar sound
Filled the father's ears
As he yelled out in warning
His eyes filled with tears

The father now sprinting
Despite his bad knee
Saw the car had just missed her
By only a few feet

He kept running to the girl
Hands soon cradling her face
She smiled once more saying
"Daddy let's race!"

He simply shook his head
Holding his little girl
Like a clam in the ocean
Never releasing its pearl