Here's to the writers—

You have the power to paint words
Into beautiful art—
To be able to touch a soul—
To touch one's heart

You can make the stormy sky blue—
Stop the waves from crashing to the shore
You can make all the withered flowers bloom—
Turn winter into summer, a glimpse of gold

You can make someone's dark day colorful—
Gather hope to put in between your words
Make them feel that they are understood—
That they aren't alone in this cruel world

You can mend someone's broken heart—
Put love in between your lines
Let them know that they are enough—
That being hurt is just a part of life

Yes—
We can make a whole new perspective—
We can create a world of our own
And no, we don't speak only for ourselves—
But also for all the lost souls

—Thalia Bautista; Just keep writing

There is beauty in tears--
trembling to the floor
they represent passion
the truest expression
of magnificence
the meaning of human
rest inside these feelings.

This is our fantasy
the wonderment:
of watching their pain,
bearing themselves,
and perching each step
nearer to the fifteen floor edge,
that extends itself to the bottomless
apartment complex.

The stangers are preying from below
just out of sight, but close enough
to hear an echo of cries
bouncing off the empty space between them.

This is some form of release
the 'rubbernecks' sing a song akin to Kumbaya,
but instead of seeking harmony
they are predators only desiring
of blood and flesh
to distill their minds
of indiscretions.

They are burdened
by their own unflinching enthusiasm
and ravenous emptiness.

Displacing myself from my perch
I feel an unpleasant revel growing through the crowd,
as I clear their 'emptiness'--
it is always an unpleasant sight
when seeing it all come to an end.

there are words
hidden in trees
and growing in flowers.
there are words
between people's lips
and in songs being carried
by the summer breeze.
there are words
on our fingertips
and lingering in our ears.
there are words
left unspoken
and there are some
that were spoken
all too quickly.
there are words
in our body  
and in everything
that is alive.
because life is
a combination of words
and we're just trying
to make them rhyme.

Do not dream too loudly
You may awaken your conscience

                                        By Phil Roberts

Ode to a Poet(writer)
I know you,
All alone
4am is when you feel most at home.
I feel you,
Blank page, full pen,
I see you,
Looking at a page waiting for a tale to unfold,
Behold!
When it starts, it flows,
I am you,
Hiding away, writing my pain,
Escaping reality,
Day to day,
We are art,
In the way we move,
We are the dreamer's and believer's
Pad and pen in hand til our dreams come true.
C. Tyler