Intro:
Start with a hook sharp enough to catch many fish.
Move into a broad outline of topic.
Add some examples to peek the interest.
End with a sentence that captures your thoughts.
(Start the way you feel it should be).

Body:
Flavorful topic sentence to open paragraph one.
State in detail specific examples and definitions.
Follow with a reference or two,
This keeps suspicion off you.
Keep same format for paragraph two and three.
(Continue on the feel that increases how you started).
(Or retrograde and start a new direction).

Conclusion:
Wake the reader back up with thesaurus found words.
State again the reason for your thoughts.
Honing specifically on what you want to say,
Without of course bringing in new info.
End with a memorable sign off.
(End with completing your thoughts).
(Or start a new idea entirely),
(Not leaving enough room for explanation).

You are the ocean breeze
Gives breath to tired lungs
So soft and sweet you swirl the sea
Place troubled minds to ease
And protects from the scorching sun

You are the crystal sand
Between toes and there remain
If today I travel, *****, or trod
You hold fast no matter where I land
Fine and light like grounded grain

You are the water’s wave
So beautiful to watch thee
By God’s hand greatly, gently guided
Mesmerized I become a slave
Each thunderous crash I guarantee
You pull me further out to sea
You are the ocean breeze

We sing and dance in this song parade.
Although, I am the only one who sees your masquerade.
Most see intricate patterns; I see only a lying face.

Kids these days make me sick. Too much time spent on IT. What’s IT you say? Well IT is the only thing that is not. IT is in but really IT is out, like a drunk left in his ***** passed out on the couch. The ultimate cool the epitome of breathtaking, and your left taking this out of proportion. What is so important? I mean really I don’t understand the importance. A synonym for the learned: imperative or even essence. That is the idea of something but your left holding nothing. Not even a burnt out flame like the lack of heat from the passion in your heart. Does it need to start…once more? A muscle unused is abused and left to consume itself. You incite cannibalism! Munching on ourselves to feed our soul lost in this dangerous world. You’re too tough to ask for directions, too stupid to read a map, or too naïve to think you are alone in this? What is THIS? THIS is just IT after THAT. THAT is simply free thought. Yet the brain sits and rots in your cranium. That’s a fancy word for skull. The helmet, not to keep thoughts in, but to let them become mature and flow down into a puddle between my feet. You see this and harmful words escape your mouth and say I ****** myself. I think not; if my head is leaking that means my thoughts cannot be contained. In pain I see the young adults of our time reading line after line of the same crap we are feed everyday of our lives. A lie, a lie I scream from an empty room, a classroom. There are entities inhabiting the same plane, yet in the same they are not here. So far away lost in this digital age. I agree you cyborgs need entertainment all the same; however, the smile I receive from seeing the moon in the middle of the day is the found on your face when someone likes your page. A paper trail untraveled by so many and misplaced in cyberspace. I walk at night to see the darkness, and you see only the lit up text message from your lazy boy recliner chair. I am convinced you’re not all there, but that’s not your fault. I blame it on the generations. I do blame you because you succumb to IT. There is that funny word again that carries no weight, but wait it can mean so much. IT is the idea of reality and your losing touch. Thus, there’s a word I don’t think gets used enough. Thus, reality is known only by how well it is defined on Wikipedia or an online dictionary equipped with spellcheck of course because without that how would we know the right way to spell. Well, well in my lap a newborn child fell. Not crying, not smiling, I’m not sure if it was even breathing. This baby, helpless and fragile, is society. We as an assembly need a babysitter for our whole lives. Why? Why live without experiencing life? Why be content with any answer that was given, not found. You have to search to find and in time life’s chorus line will start and so will the tears. The so perfectly phrased line will place fear in all who understand. How can we understand when all left standing is man? Man a fragile thing like a mansion on the beach. Sand ******* up the existence of all the living. I want to introduce a new word: WHEN. WHEN will we not take the so-called facts as face value and attempt to discredit them with logical thinking. WHEN will we move the rudder instead of waiting for the tides to change? WHEN will we place IT on it’s own head and explain something we know to someone else. Learning is gained not by blindly memorizing facts, like my mac, but by forming an attack on the disbeliefs. Hopefully to hone an opinion and be ready to defend IT, and I mean in every sense of the word. IT is the idea of reality and your catching on. Leave the bottle of forward thinking, and begin to chew on the backwards and sideward food your not use to.  Open the mind and heart to be restarted by learning. Thought is the jumper cables to this world’s battery dead from leaving it’s lights on all night, and now late to work for it wouldn’t start. Roughly 6 billion, 775 million, 235 thousand, and 741 people on this earth and we still don’t feel part of IT. Have we lost IT, have we tossed IT overboard? The only savior to the sickness and now it is sinking to the bottom of the sea to be discovered like a lost treasure. A gold doubloon used to measure the currency of our time. The state of our States is left to us to state whether we hate or don’t care about the shape we’re in, a sphere, a bubble, a circle with no beginning or end. Nowhere to start just have to keep moving in the same general direction or be swept away by the undercurrent. Drop your anchor and disturb the flow, stop the overused pattern. Turn the cycle of a circle into the turning of a wheel and use that to drive. Finally to take a destination of you’re own and truly think of the cosmos. To place you’re cognitive mind into motion and here the notion that there is more to THIS then IT.

Your love for me
Lifts me like the air beneath these paper wings,
Soaring into the setting sun.

I fly to greater heights
Everyday and every night,
As long as I glide upon the current of you.

My flight makes your presence known;
The way I'm controlled by the direction I'm blown.
I ask send me soaring further into your arms.

Trying to steal that pearl from your mouth.
But as your name says, you shut me out.
I then get tossed in the undercurrent.
You offer not a hand, but a laugh.
I drift alone thinking of what I can.
I the seahorse, and you the clam.

Temper rises when revelation is found.
Temper advances when changes are bound.
Temper decreases when understanding is crowned.

Inside voice, inside voice.
We’re not outdoors,
So please quiet your tone
And use an inside voice.
Your speech is abrasive,
Causing my ears to burn.
Why are you so intrusive
With your words.
No one listens,
And you think because
You cannot be heard.
Yet the reason is,
The price is too high.
Big payment, with little return.

Oh how I am perfectly formed my edges caressed, shaped, and placed in a pattern by a steady hand. Set on a shelf for those who came across the sea, to see and purchase me. I am propped between two, one a dragon and the other a swan. I sit quietly to be picked and loved. I long to sink some root down but at last I realize how I am not truly able to do that. Growing is not in my character; I am more a caricature, only there to express spring. My petals sing with bright colors to distract the eye. That way I can trick a sojourning soldier trying to stay alive into buying this fake glory. I am holding onto the idea of being real and seal the thought of not feeling this hole deep within my papers seams. Seen as a work of art only represents time spent, more like wasted. The taste of lies fills your heart and I am glad only because you see me sitting crowded between many things. Things not creatures; created by an earthy man humbly bowing over plain sheets. I was once in that place waiting to be created. Thinking of what I might be: A plane to soar across great plains and over seas, a frog with bent knees hoping from a sense of jubilee, or even a crane bending great distances from the tops of trees. Yet I meekly was pressed into the meadows stars. Shinning on a summers day, listening to the children play. How we sway to a cool breeze, to tease the rocks and grass only seen through a magnifying glass. Sounds great but that’s only what I see from my ledge of a home. Out the windowsill I see me as I wish to be. Yet still I sit quietly thinking that will never be, for I am just a fake flower charming known as origami.

You are the ocean breeze
Gives breath to tired lungs
So soft and sweet you swirl the sea
Place troubled minds to ease
And protects from the scorching sun

You are the crystal sand
Between toes and there remain
If today I travel, trek, or trod
You hold fast no matter where I land
Fine and light like grounded grain

You are the water’s wave
So beautiful to watch thee
By God’s hand greatly, gently guided
Mesmerized I become a slave
Each thunderous crash I guarantee
You pull me further out to sea
You are the ocean breeze

The idea of man has changed.
We no longer build things,
But have to take care of our manicures.
We no longer grow a forest upon our face,
But shave every inch of real estate;
Such that others others buy into our facade.
No more princes looking for a fight-
On their perilous journey to find the princess.
Now it seems all the princes are searching for another prince.
I think for the sole reason,
That man is trying to find a real man.
Someone to him to start a fire,
To swing a sword, or have unconditional love.
Bottled aggression turns into feminism,
Yet I’m not saying women are weak.
Very much to the contrary,
They can place a deep fear in any man.
That’s their job: to keep us grounded.
With two men or (wo)men,
No balance is found and the cycle turns.
A man that doesn’t fight gets left behind,
And will be murdered under his bed.
(His favorite hiding spot)
I understand the blame mostly falls on change,
But be a man, a rock, steady and un-moveable.

Was welcomed into the dark cloud
resting on the mountaintop.
For war and unlikely failure.
The unwillingness to give up
protects against the loss from
The one who breathes surrender.

Fu Manchu mustache stopped in traffic.
Hair died with all the colors under the moon.
Brown dogs dressed as black cats,
Sent your way only to cross your path.

Goblins, zombies, and doctors all the same.
Sleeking, stumbling, or walking straight.
How this ritual peaks my interests.
A day to reveal the mask hidden.

The popularity is easy when you can be anybody.
Darkest deceptions of the mind brought to light.
Twisted talents are expected and fancied.
All under the guise of free candy.

My pen bleeds.
Each and every time,
I attempt to write my thoughts.

My pen bleeds.
How it looks,
Like a wound that needs healing.

My pen bleeds,  
So I don't lose ideas.
how selfish I am.

My pen bleeds,
And is satisfied
Because of the design.

Dance to the beat of the daffodils upon the blades of grass.
Through the wind escaping from the valley.
They move solely to soak in the sun,
Growing them into a song and dance.
Picked by two lovers on a summers day.
Placed in the space behind the ear,
Camouflaged within her hair.
Traveling seeing the whole land.
Planted in the garden at home,
Sinking the roots down to grow another choir.
Spring up to sing a perfect harmony.
Tuning to the Autumn breeze.
Unifying all who has a chance to stop and ponder on certain things.
Thus become distracted and embraced,
By the smell of those dancing daffodils.

Thought is ******.
Freely thinking of anything.
In the safety of the mind,
One can be mad:
                                        A jealous fool,
                                        A lover,
                                        A ******,
                                        A murderer.
Anything he fancies.
The true self
That is hidden,
Often times behind our masks:
                                       A smile,
                                       A blank stare,
                                       A muscle contracting,
                                       A layer of skin.
The mask is so familiar;
It seems like truth,
Yet the knowledge of falsehood
Lie deep inside like:
                                      A root,
                                      An anchor,
                                      A burrow,
                                      A secret.
Deep down in the caverns
Of the body.
Once light shines,
We can see:
                                     A horror,  
                                     A misshaped,
                                     A disgusting,
                                     A vexing sight.
Lies and truths,
Mixed as if one.
The sight is unbearable,
So we keep it locked away:
                                     A convict,
                                     An enemy,
                                     A rat in trap,
                                     A prisoner.
The prison of
Our socially acceptable
Will destroy completely
Our true personality:
                                    A self,
                                    An image,
                                    An x-ray,
                                    A representative.
Tis dangerous, that our identity
Is safe within the confines
Of our mind freely thinking.
Because thought is ******.

“Look at her,” you utter, “I’d smack that.”
Why would such words be muttered-
“I’d smack that” like some show horse.
A strong pet to the back of the neck.
What a phrase to place a hand upon a face,
And it echoes for years to come:
                   SMACK!
Words spill forth, even through bruised lips.
I say that you’d be placed in her womb,
So you can be born into her world.
Thus, to see and hear yourself;
Hear from outside your contrived language.
Knowing now how, more then a hand, words
                   SMACK!
I hear the phrase, “I’d smack that,”
And shiver because of the grotesque picture.
Not only does she carry your offspring,
She is indeed a human being.
Part of Man, nay, rather Human-Kind.
Try her shoes on and see if you’d like a
                   SMACK!

The leaky pipe in the basement needs to be checked periodically, so Henry ventures down with wrench in hand. Henry flips the light switch, coast is clear. He walks to the pipe and with a turn stops the watery drips. The newly found silence gives Henry’s senses clarity, which frightens him. As he stands, the figure emerges from the shadow in the corner. Henry is left frozen not knowing what to do. The voice echoes through the room and every vain in Henry’s body.
                                                                ­     DEATH is closer to you than you think,
                                                         ­                       and he can smell your fear.
                                                          ­         DEATH is watching closer than you know,
                                                          ­                          and he is always near.
                                                          ­             DEATH has made his acquaintance,
                                                  ­                               and escape is impossible.
                                                    ­                        DEATH will follow your steps,
                                                         ­                and you should run if you’re able.
Henry then runs as fast as he could out of the cellar. He found refuge in the throng of nurses coming back from lunch. Feeling he has put a full days in, he departed for the only place he remotely felt safe, his home.
Before he knew it, Henry was back on the train heading home. Thinking the only safe spot is away from that cellar, like the cellar could keep death at bay. Frantically Henry looks around for the evil spirit but saw nothing. No one was on the train, which was odd even for that time of day. Henry’s ears pick up a sound of footsteps coming from behind him, and he prays to G-d that it is only a delusion. Next to Henry sits a man who has placed a hat upon his lap, the same hat that has caused a shudder in his voice for the last few days. Before Henry could speak, the man says we are finally alone. Knowing full well that death has come to beckon him home, Henry sits for the end. The man sits silently, furthering the fear of Henry. “Why does he have to torture me? Just end it please,” thinks Henry. The man with the small-rimmed hat begins, “You are not safe my friend. As I have warned before, Death is preoccupied with you and your demise. Trust not a living soul.” Henry says, “Have you not come here to **** me for escaping your clutches?” The man bellows out a laugh and states, “I am not who you think I am. I’m here to keep you from him. That is the reason I have followed you at a distance.” Henry strains out, “You are not death coming to bid my end?” The man says, “No, but he has grown close to you.  Do not trust anyone you come into contact with. No one!” With that, the man departs off the train leaving only one more exit before Henry’s stop.
Henry exits the train peering into the faces of all around trying to see the devil behind their eyes. Henry talks to no one and makes it home safely. The incident on the train replayed in Henry’s mind until the vision was scratched like a vinyl under a needle. The only comfort Henry could think of was to sleep just one more night. Henry closes his eyes only to open them again to his nightmares. Like all the other nights, his mind dances with the idea of death but this time it was different. The pain was not just on the surface but sank deep within his being. He was strapped down and hot lava was being poured into his chest. Henry looks up to see teeth snarling at him and saliva dripping from the blackened abyss behind the teeth.  The creature was pinning him down and gave no relief. Henry now realizing it was only another nightmare he was attempting to wake himself, but he could not. As Henry’s eyes traveled up the face of the monster causing such pain, he sees the eyes. Eyes red as blood and that is when his mind pushes through the dreamland. Upon focusing in reality there was in fact some fiend residing on his chest. The dog that saved Henry was now tormenting him. The heat coming off the dog’s paws burned Henry’s skin. The dog then plunges for Henry’s heart. And that was the last thing Henry saw, his closest friend was indeed death.

Upon following a pattern,
Creativity can be lost.
Ideas as a lantern,
Shining at a cost.

Costing a specific price,
Are the sonnets for hire.
Many follow as a vice,
But others liked to be inspired.

However, harder it is to be controlled,
Than be free versed.
Many feel that words can be sold,
Yet with format then one’s thoughts can be terse.

Thus either format is useful,
Depending which is more beneficial.

You are the moon,
That lights my sky.
Thus reflecting the sun.
I see you
In all your phases.
Changing, yet the same.
Starting with a full glow;
Then slow you go.
All the way to a fingernail.
Only to come back,
With a brighter glow.

Words fill the air with an air of uncertainty.
Uncertain as a calm sky, how peaceful and quiet.
Tis either the break before the storm,
Or the ending of a downpour.

A newsflashes like lightening, and strikes the mind.
Piercing to the core of developed thoughts.
How at first the words were considered dreadful,
Reality is made known and it turns to something beautiful.

The drenching nature of the news causes growth.
It provides fuel to overcome a broken heart.
There are only three obstacles to overcome in life:
The good, the bad, and the undefined.

Toes freezing from the height,
And eyes met in a gaze.
The sway is rhythmic,
With concise control.
Holding to all parts,
Including the heart.
Stay in that moment forever,
Never giving release.
As a 3-cord rope,
We are strengthened.
All I want is to be in this moment;
Never to feel alone again.
Love is a funny word,
That continues to grow.
Upon release of emotions,
There is a seismic flood;
Causing a connection of two,
Through what is felt.
Feelings fade and drift;
However, what is contained
Between the two of us
Is Beautiful and lasting.
One day I will place
A weight on your finger
That will gleam in the sun,
And cause the envy
Of everyone.

The next morning he rose to find the dog still sleeping next to the fire. Henry began to pet him to show the gratitude for saving his life. The dog felt hot like the fire and smelt almost like sulfur. Henry decided to ditch work for the next couple of days figuring he needed a vacation. Thus, Henry and the dog went on a walk around the forest residing behind Henry’s house. As the two of them stepped into the dense sea of trees, Henry saw on the floor a set of footprints. Seeing those footprints made the night before even more real for him and he dropped to his knees and wept. The dog began to lick his face with an air of happiness. “You’re right dog. I mustn’t be so dramatic. I mean I am alive right?” The dog started off into the woods with Henry soon following after. After a long walk the two of them began back for the house. Right before exiting the forest, Henry noticed that there was something ascribed on to the tree:
                                                           ­  DEATH is closer to you than you think
Henry knew this was the work of the figure he saw outside the night before, but the question remains was it a prankster kid, someone with a grudge that Henry was the only survivor, or in some other extreme explanation this was death himself.
Henry cooked rabbit stew for dinner, just like the one his mother made. He gave some to the dog, which lasted a matter of minutes. Henry was starting to like the stupid dog and considered that canine his only friend. The only one he could talk to or feel his pain of life. In mid conversation Henry got the chills, and the dog started barking at seemingly nothing. However as Henry went to quiet the dog, he heard footsteps on the porch. Henry grabbed his rifle and headed for the front door. He flung the door open with barrel raised eye level and ready to fire on any moving creature. In the distance was that same figure walking away in a gliding fashion. On the door was a note hung by a oversized metal “X.” Henry tore the paper off the door and read aloud the words:
                                                          ­  DEATH is closer to you than you think
                                                          ­            and he can smell your fears
Instantaneously, the dog begins to bark and growl at the mere words read aloud. That’s why you’re here boy isn’t it? You’re here to keep me safe. Henry went back to the front door and grabbed hold of the object lunged into the wood, and he pulled it out to see that indeed is was not an “X” but a cross. The sharp edge on one side dug into Henry’s flesh tearing off just a small piece. The blood ran like a river on the floor. The dog started to gnaw at his leg, so henry tried to quiet him by reaching down. The dog licked his hand and it blistered and caused a shooting pain throughout his body, but the open wound was now sealed shut. Henry turned to see the dog lapping up the spilt blood, so Henry went to the couch and fell asleep.

Water flowing down the permanent canals.
Colors running and bleeding together.
Red pressure spots residing in their familiar place.
Years of brokenness and neglect.

Ducts thought to be dried,
Yet springs forth gallons more.
How the nights are spent in a watery grave.
Cries heard from no one except her pillow.

Too many chances, to forgive again.
Quietness is welcomed, but hated.
For she lost all including herself,
And sadness became her only friend.

He is an Autumn shower, he loves me.
He is a Winter freeze, he loves me not.
I am his queen on the throne, he loves me.
I have no home but this dungeon, he loves me not.
Words fill my heart causing it to float, he loves me.
Words fill my heart poisoning it, he loves me not.
His voice speaks so soft in my ear, he loves me.
His lies spill so easily, he loves me not.
I always knew without doubt, he loves me.
Turns out to my dismay, he loves me not.

Like the beach longs for high tide.
The waves to lap upon the coarse sand
And make it walkable again.

Like a penny piercing through the stillness of a lake,
Is the beauty and wonder G-d has made.
Yet, the world waters it’s weeds,
Growing toxin and spreading the disease.
An antidote is simply a walk to see the stillness.
The passing of cars and low roar of distant horns;
Yet there is still a quietness.
Take 15 minutes to watch the sky.
You see a storm brewing,
But there’s a stillness in the eye.
All around is the beauty and wonder that’s been made.
Like a penny piercing through a lake.

In your mind a closet of mirrors,
Reflecting back the darkness.
The deep absences of your mind.
The mind is simply a mirror of your heart,
Darker than a stormy night.
Light is no where to be found,
For if it was it would reflect a shadow.
An outline of your feeble body,
On the verge of collapsing.
Yet this vision is hidden,
Within the blackness residing within.  
All can see the despair in your eyes,
Yet it is concealed from your sight.
Thus, you live lost within your darkness.

Pen to paper
Is the flow of thought.
Write to know
The things you do not.
Complete understanding
Of the unknown.
Swiftly learning
All skills to hone.

We finally able to play our song,
To sing out and share our excitement.
But before our first notes,
We go out of tune.
Playing sour chords, blaming each other.
We drag on playing different songs.
In perfect discourse.
Not embarrassed for for our lack of listening,
But distraught of our dissonance.
Disbelief will soon die and we shall see some sort of saving,
But not in each other.
We lay upon our fret boards, modulating often.
Changing key to adjust to the counter,
Yet never making harmony.

This is a story of man who defied all odds, and his name was Henry Fredrick. Henry rides the train every morning on his daily commute to the city, which is where he works. He is a repairman for Azrael Medical Center, a local hospital. Henry is a single man who lives alone and does not like to keep company very often. As said before, he takes the train from his residence located in the outskirts of the town. He seldom makes friends, but the friends he does have keep in good rapport with him. T’was the first week of April in the year 1987, that he departed like any other day when suddenly the train derailed. He was tossed about from roof to floor, and this vicious cycle continued until he was left lying on top of someone else’s luggage. Henry laid there for quite some time fearing no one would know where to look, and he began to think what he could have done better in his life. The only thought he had was of his death. Trying to rid himself of this misery he began to ask why he did not simply buy a car and take that to work instead of the train. The train was so close and inviting to Henry because he could spend time alone to think before having to deal with the occupational world. A few hours were spent and he finally attempted to move his carcass so that he could perhaps be found. He struggled to crawl up to the door, the only escape route. That’s when the feeling hit him, like someone was watching him or planning his demise. Henry frantically looked around but saw no one. He began to yell for help when someone or something showed up. The two of their eyes met and instantaneously the two of them became preoccupied with the other. As Henry began to widen his gaze from those engulfing red eyes, he notices that indeed that thing that was watching him was a dog. The dog grabbed onto Henry’s shirt puling him from the wreckage. The dog seemed to have supernatural strength and Henry felt as if he was floating on air being carried on the shoulders of some strange beast, but was most likely due to the fact that he lost basically all of his blood. The dog dragged Henry’s broken body to the street, and that is where Henry blacked out.

It looks as if my heart is night.
Darker then the absence of light.
The taste is as if death cooked it himself.
The smell of miasma expelling forth
From my muscle beating.
                               Beating.
                               Beating just to keep alive the death.
However, I would had to be alive at one time to measure death.
Yet it has been so long since I can remember that.
My body feels cold and it grows still colder.
I can feel it spreading, and faster it goes when seen with condemning eyes.
My hands now black like ice on a road.
I attempt to remove the shallow grave from my hands,
But all I’m wearing is white and it’s spreading like wildfire.
Moving from the hidden into the visual sight.
I wear gloves to hid the grotesqueness, yet it bleeds through.
I have learned to except the fact of my situation.
All the pain it inflicts is in a certain sense something I'm use to,
And if it does leave I would not know how to be.
For it is my life to rid my life of such infliction,
But when, or if, I do I will have used up my existence
On that single fact and die from the inside out.
If I rid myself of the darkness there will be a hole.
A hole wider then can be filled by human measures;
Thus, my heart will fill with blood and drown itself.
I just need the idea of searching for a cure;
Not necessarily the cure itself.
Consequently, I will search to the end of the earth for a solution,
But in the back of my mind I know I shall never find.

Oh electric city, you burn brighter then nature’s sky.
How you never sleep, but always burn.
On these nights I can see how your over activeness,
Leads to the death of us all.
You cause even me to feel invincible.
I am too young to be taught that.
You preach instant pleasure,
And as I smoke my pipe I feel the rush of dopamine.
Thus tying all of my underlying feelings;
How I am alone in this grand world.
Left to my views only seen by my eyes;
Understood only by my mind.
I am drawn to the stillness of your movement.
Changing but never progressing.
Perhaps it’s not invincible I feel, but noncompliance.
Why would I strive to live in this world-
If i know there is so much more.
More to the cycle of work and a daily dose of death.
As I inhale my uneasiness is put to rest.
Helping me to continue on this journey ahead.
Oh electric city when I close my eyes tonight,
I will pray for you to sleep.

Your fingers are at first frost bitten,
As you touch me.
But as you move so gracefully,
Heat encompasses the tips.
What a beautiful sound we make,
And with you doing most the work.

Hammers strike with each swift press.
Vibrations of all octaves.
Move through my ivory teeth,
And turn the heads of all.
How we are made for each other.
For without the counter music is not made.

Hear me sing out my love,
And I can feel yours with each touch.
With trills, swells, and ritardando’s,
The noise guides ears to heaven.
For you are the hands that play,
And I the piano by the stairs.

I stand in the midst of wonder wondering why I stand in the first place. Not by a chance of interstellar explosion, but by hand I am crafted. My spirit and soul are sown into one making me who I am. I stand selfishly thinking the effect the world has on me, when I should ask a reverse and converse to others the effect we have on this earth. I gaze in the stars to form an opinion of why this light in my life is burning so bright, burning like the sun. The sun is simply a star, but the son is anything but simple. The stardust thus express deeply the desires of stating that this world is anything but ordinary. Even now on the mountaintop looking down into the valley. The amount of life stories amounting to a number uncountable by only one man. Although not fathomable He knows every quote expressing in great detail the plot and characters as if it was more than read. Yet it was published by the hand who guides me through this terrible sea. Seen as trails but those demons only come out with prayer and fasting. This lack of food feeds more than my soul, it feeds my being, my beliefs, my thinking. The belief that thinking is the result of my being. Yet only now known is the thought that my being is a result of believing. Belief is a tragedy though because you often learn things you don’t want to know.
Knowledge is said to be power, yet I express to myself and my closet friends that knowledge gives way to wisdom, which creates a humble man. Only then can we, who think so highly of ourselves, to see the kingdom. Placed low for those who can’t reach perfection to obtain it. Thus throw open the golden gates and enter in my good and faithful servant.

First to freeze is the tips of fingers.
As time drags, so does the bite of the cold night.
It climbs higher and higher up the arm.
The body attempts to compensate, and the core heats.
Creating water to expel from every clothed pore.
Soon unbearable the jacket is replaced,
With the dim glow of the moon and breath.
The salty water begins to turn to snow upon the eyebrows.
An uncomfortable middle between hot and cold.
How it starts from the outside in;
Only to change from the inside out.
The dance with the elements begins.
It cycles 3 or 4 times before the destination.
I remove my jacket and feel the frost forming,
As I ride through town on my bike tonight.

Henry awoke from another nightmare. He was paddling down stream when he struck a boulder, which caused the boat to topside. He was swirled around gasping for air, but only inhaled lungs full of water. The water however was not water at all, but a vast expanse of blood. He awoke to a sweaty forehead and shallow breathes. There it was again, that feeling of being watched. The feeling Henry said was an almost waiting for something to happen. Henry arose to see the dog over by the fire staring at him, most likely because of the screams. The dog laid his head down and closed his eyes. Henry now restless went to the kitchen to get a drink. He poured a glass of bourbon with two ice cubes and made his way back to the couch. Passing the closed window, Henry felt compelled to check the darkness. Henry opened the blinds to see that hat bouncing off in the darkness. Henry tried to keep quiet so the dog would not wake and start barking, alerting the figure outside. Henry snuck out and tiptoed on the freshly dewed grass. He was within twenty paces of the man with the small-rimmed hat. When suddenly, the man turned and looked into the eyes of Henry, much like the dog did on the night of the accident. His fear rose and that monster housed in the resemblance of man spoke a rhyme:
                                                          ­     DEATH is closer to you than you think,
                                                         ­                and he can smell your fear.
                                                          ­   DEATH is watching closer than you know,
                                                          ­                   and he is always near.
Henry was frozen from the chilling words. When he heard a noise to break him from his catatonic state. The dog was awake, barking, and heading straight for the source of Henry’s misery. Henry turned to see the dog sprinting right at him. Henry turned back to look at the man who spoke with such profound words, but alas the man was gone. The dog could not stop in time and toppled Henry over. The dog stood on Henry’s back declaring to the night’s darkness that Henry was his.
Henry awoke from another night of terror, but this time he died. The dream was black and white and lacked any other color, including grey. The scenery was a sharp contrast between dark and bright lines. He was being chased through the house but each room lead to another hallway to more rooms and so on and so on went the dream. Until this monster appeared out of the fireplace. It took two steps and then transformed into a train heading with full force to hit Henry. And it did. The train tore right through the skin, bones, and muscle of Henry’s body. He felt the full pain of it, and woke crying from sheer agony. Henry sat up in his bed and was motionless until he decided that work would take his mind off things.

He arose from a stupor to find himself resting in a bed, much like the ones he maintained at Azrael. He realized that he was in fact at the very same hospital. The Doctor came and asked, “How are you doing?” Henry knew of this Doctor, but he has not ever carried on a conversation with him. Henry thought to himself, “What is his name? Dr. something with a ‘L’ or yeah Dr. Lance.” Henry replies, “Not well Dr. Lance.” The look of amazement on the Doctors face made Henry smile, and Dr. Lance explains, “Henry you were in an awful train accident, and you are the sole survivor.” Henry shook his head in agreement, and he asked how long he has to stay in the hospital. He hated it there because he always felt so enclosed and close to death. The Dr. answered, “Not long. Just until tomorrow.” The two said their good byes, and Henry was off to the first night of many where he would not get much sleep. The nightmares were too horrific for his mind to contain, and he often woke startled because he was screaming. The dreams were different each time, but all had the same underlying idea: his death. The first dream started with him on the train and he had to relive that event over and over. It played close to fifteen times before the sun rose. It was a bright morning with chirping birds and the smell of flowers, but all Henry could see was the death coming in and out of the hospital, which he never really noticed before. He arrived home and waiting on the porch was the dog that saved him the night before. Henry approached cautiously because those eyes looked deep within him. Henry reached the door and yelled for the dog to leave, but the dog sat quietly. Not in a peaceful kind of way but an almost waiting for something.
Later that night it began raining. He was about to dive into another sporadic sleep cycle when the dog outside began barking. Henry leaped to his feet because he knew someone was there, and that stupid dog was the reason for it. Henry walked to the door and belted out for him to leave because no way in hell was that dog going to get in. Eventually Henry felt remorseful because the dog did indeed save him, and if the dog were not a canine then Henry would have thanked him properly. Reluctantly Henry let in the dog, and he scampered over to the fireplace to take his resting spot. Henry went to sleep, but before making it to his room he passes the open window. Henry goes to close it and sees in the distance a shadowy figure standing in the downpour. There stood an outline of a man wearing all black with a small-rimmed hat to keep the rain out of his eyes. Henry shrieked and slammed the windows shut with violent force. “I knew it! I knew it! Someone is watching me but whom? Who would stand there in the rain like that?” Henry’s mind began to derail much like the train he was on less than 32 hours before. After a few hours of worry, Henry talked himself into believing that the figure was merely a shadow of a tree, a bush that needed mending, or perhaps a repercussion of the accident. Henry rested his heavy eyes and began to fall asleep, but deep down he knew something was watching his every move.

Henry bikes to the train station to face his fear and go into the city again. He makes it to the station and waits listening to the wind whistling quietly. He rests his eyes and is startled by the horn of the train. As he gathers his belongings and thoughts, he climbs upon the death trap. He is taken back as he places his foot on the step to the train; he hears a whisper say, “Death is closer than you think.” Knowing it was only his mind playing tricks, he steps in. The fear subsides as the train pulls out of port, and Henry quiets his cognitive dissonance saying to himself out loud, “it was only a freak accident.” As the spot for the last derailment approaches, his palms sweat and heart fills causing in to sink to his feet. Although, the crime scene passes, and so does his fear. Henry arrives to his destination and could not get off the train any faster. Thinking to himself, “That was a stupid idea, but now I’m here so no fretting.” Henry makes it to work and starts his daily routines, but eerie is his thoughts. Every sound causes the dreaded words to play back in his mind with enormous intensity.
                                                      ­        DEATH is closer to you than you think,
                                                         ­                and he can smell your fear.
                                                          ­ DEATH is watching closer than you know,
                                                          ­                  *and he is always near. *
Henry tries to shake off the feeling, but that just makes it worse. The traffic that comes with the hustle of a hospital is not helping at all, and causes Henry to constantly check over his shoulder. With each glance, he is expecting to see that black trench coat with the small-rimmed hat. Henry closes his eyes to keep from running, but that causes his nightmare to birth into a vivid picture. This makes Henry dart into to bathroom to throw up, and ultimately taking vacancy on the toilet seat. Through the crack he sees the man again. There stood the tall dark figure replacing his hat. Henry spoke no sound, not even a breath, to keep his location secret. Eventually the man leaves, and Henry believes his mind has gone crazy.

A river floes with fluidity.
Falling over a fault.
Seen as majestic,
known as a waterfall.
Falling into what seems,
An un-growing sea.
That is you and me.
I am the water
Falling over the thought of you.
Crashing into a pond,
Refreshing and blue.

He is an Autumn shower, he loves me.
He is a winter’s freeze, he loves me not.
I am his queen upon the throne, he loves me.
I have no home but this dungeon, he loves me not.
Words fill my heart causing it to float, he loves me.
Words fill my heart poisoning it, he loves me not.
His voice speaks so soft in my ear, he loves me.
His lies spill so easily, he loves me not.
I always knew without doubt, he loves me.
Turns out to my dismay, he loves me not.

Almost a week and your still going.
No word, no sound, not even a breath.
Are you in the midst of the darkness?
Or have you gone for quite some time now?
Dare I say, were you even here in the beginning?
Three questions deserve an answer,
But likely no response.
I have searched for endless days,
But that key is sure not to be found.
So I broke down your hearts door.
Now I fear something more then not being loved.
In the light produced by truth
I'm seen as unwanted, a intruder.

To you who is reading, listening, or absorbing this poem,
How many steps of un-walked land has your soles pressed upon?
True steps with one foot in front the other;
Over and over and over again.
What new sights have your toes seen?
What mark have you left (the print of your travels).
I say stop reading, listening, or whatever you are doing with this poem,
And go for a walk- right now, drop it all and go.
See where the pull of nature takes you.
As i stand on the corner of Peace and El Capitain,
I bid you: come find me.