Imagine a world.
What do you see?
Do you see a place of paradise?
Do you see the rivers?
Tigris and Euphrates?
A place where all is bountiful,
And the sun forever shines
And darkness is forever lost.
Or do you see a world drenched in fire?
Overcome with the emotional grief
Of the death of it’s natural resources,
Of echoes coming down the corridors,
Starved bodies lying on the floor,
And villains run amuck?
A long time ago, a man wrote about a Lady and a Tiger.
His mission is mine.

The moon was my mistress tonight. She offered me light when it was needed, and never was it too harsh as the sun, that gaseous blimp in the morning and evening sky. His conceit to reveal his ostentatious rays were unlike the moon who looked so beautiful in her silver linen of light and her drapes of dark clouds overlapped each other in a silken pattern. Her black and silver cloth combined to create shapes of known and unknown animals.

The animals flew to cover her face momentarily covering her true beauty only to reveal that extraordinary face surrounded by sparkling gems like a goddess that could rival Aphrodite. It was not until I examined closely that I saw those few blemishes on her face. Those dark spots located in a spontaneous order, but it only added further to her beauty. It was in her imperfections that she rivaled the illusion of Aphrodite. With her flaws, she symbolized true beauty by having the ability to reveal her disfigurements and still remain the most beautiful heavenly body.

The moon’s light came down to reveal only the bare essentials of the earth. She allowed enough light to see, but not to examine the other beauties of the planet. It was almost like she demanded the attention after living in the shadow of the sun quite literally.

The sky seemed to be so dark and uninviting in comparison to the moon. It was like staring into the eyes of an apathetic killer. It held the moon gently as a father would. My mistress was suspended in the sky. She floated above the earth gracefully held by the sky’s imposing body.

The sky stood by her side as a defender, almost daring me to approach her and giving me an impending doom that would fall upon me. Perhaps, Chicken Little dared to look upon the moon and that is when the sky fell on him.

My mistress revealed the world in a monochromatic fashion allowing for fantasies of old drive-in movies and black onyx set in pearl. The trees were silent in such a night, and not a single sweep of wind came to disrupt the sleeping trees. My mistress demanded total respect for this night which only occurred every thirty days.

Her peerless body wrapped in dark silk, the moon glided across the night sky as if she had all the time in the world, and she did. She would not allow anything less from her subjects. She would not allow her few moments of glory to be taken from her.

Even the smallest of creatures honored the moon’s enchanting presence. They dared not move nor buzz nor hum. They sat and meditated on the spell that the moon had placed on them. They had desired to become as I was. They wanted to be one with the moon as I was, for she guided me in the darkest of nights, and would never forsake me when I needed her.

It was then that the sky began to ripple. The moon began to dance and the stars were a chorus line. Her face smiled at me once final time through the mirror of the water. She knew that I thought I was not worthy to see her face-to-face. The connection was finally interrupted. I had become as those small creatures and once again the wind swept through the world.

Those days when it hits you so hard.

You stagger, and try to recover.

But no, it remains like a brick wall.

Pushing against reality, but it takes all

Your might, your soul, your power.

You try and try, and scream a little louder.

But no one can hear you as gravity presses down.

Down.

Down.

Down.

Farther and farther into the ground.

Because all of those little facts that were,

are no more.

Because people have changed around.

But the worst part is, admitting that, through it all,

You've changed too. That you are no longer a child.

That your life flashed past you, and the entire time,

You were afraid to take a chance.

You put it off until later.

But now the time has come.

It has come and it's knocking down your door.

Making you face the harsh world by force.

So now, the little amount of innocence that you have left,

That little voice inside your head that screams,

"No! I'm not going. You can't make me!"

is silenced forever.

The world will never seem the same again.

But the worst part is, that I don't want it to be.

The Land of the Free…

Is it? Isn’t it? I thought so.

America is everyone’s land.

Or so that’s what they claim.

It became a land filled with

Lies and deception.

They lied within their lies,

It might as well be Inception.

“Be who you want to be,

As long as it is who we want.”

That’s what the Motto should be.

But this is America. MY AMERICA.

I would die for the Stars and Stripes.

Because I was told that I was entitled

That my ancestors bleed for this land,

And that this land is worth dying for.

A place where you can be who you want to be,

No matter of race, ****** orientation, or religion.

That’s the land that I’m willing to die for.

A place where every man is entitled to their opinion,

Without discrimination. Where no man condemns.

I fight for freedom. Not for myself, I know that I’m free.

I fight for freedom. For my fellow man,

Because I know they deserve it,

Just as much as I do.

Just as much as anyone does.

I fight for freedom,

What do you fight for?

Words are a fickle thing.
They claim those faint of heart,
Destroying those heathenish men,
Who dare try to control the world
Through the power of words.
Those who try are instantly conquered
By the omniscient dictionary,
Destroyed by their constant use of a thesaurus,
And taken over by attempting mimicking another man’s voice,
Instead of trying to find their own.

They fail because they write for the wrong reasons.
They fail because of their selfishness.
They fail because they want fame.
They fail because their words are…
Lifeless….
Hopeless...
Stubborn…
Their words refuse to conform to their ideas.
Their words punish their minds with sleepless nights,
Over their horrid word choice.
Crush their dreams with metaphor upon metaphor.
Win over their imaginations by continuous simile stacking.
Imagine if you would,
Attempting to perform heart surgery,
With a sledge hammer,
While a hungry lion is in the room,
And you’re in your underpants.
That is the challenge that these miserly men face
When they sit at their desks, with their pens twirling,
And their minds racing, asking why their characters
Are like puppets with no puppeteer.
Why their poems have no reason.
Why their words truly have no power.

When you write, think not about what you want to accomplish.
Don’t think about what will make people stir.
Think about what you feel.
Feel your heart pound and your soul quake.
When your words make you want to dance,
That’s when you know that you wrote something worthwhile.
Because it made sense to you, someone else will feel it.
Someone else will know exactly what you mean.
Always remember that your first draft comes from the heart.

My tie was straight,
My suit was clean,
And my hair was neatly combed.
I entered the car
Complete with parents
Desperately feeling alone.

My mom spoke words
I could not hear,
Over the sound of her natural nag.
I would never tell her,
I could never tell her,
How she could be such a hag.

Her controlling ways,
Her pessimistic view,
How she will always nip and pick.
And when I argue,
Even just a little tad,
She makes me to be the ****.

I am sworn to a book,
Bound with leather
To serve it with my life.
Although I doubt it,
I don’t believe that
It will cause more than strife.

It caused pain,
It caused suffering,
As it spread across the masses.
But truly it failed,
The Way is torched,
By those heinous *******.

But I will suffer through,
A life of monotony,
For it is the only life I know.
This life is mine,
This cross is mine,
To put on a happy show.

I will smile at people,
I will pass through
As people scoff at me.
I will never tell them,
That my religion
Is actually killing me softly.