Poetry is the voice chattering in my head...
Never lets up... It is the voice for when I'm afraid...
Conjured up from deep looping thoughts...
Vented out through written words when the voice could not.
Necessity forged by the mind and heart.
Feelings and emotions that the core wouldn't carelessly discard.
Poetry is an outlet of sorts, tentatively I can afford.
In this realm, the pen be my sword.
Poetry is everything... Beauty spanning multiple universes...
All we do is try to have it harnessed and channelled into individual artful verses...


An outlet, escape, my hole in the wall,
where I can hide from the Hell in my heart.
You're learning to walk, I'm just trying to crawl
beneath the flak; as it once tore me apart.
I've got my demons, how about you?
Faceless legions strung through my soul;
with ink and paper, they often bleed through
From lines and verses, I regain some control.
So, if you're asking me what poetry means
I won't say much, but I'll show you my scars.
Words and rhymes slash stitches and seams,
but in my unraveling, I see shooting stars.


My escape from the world
A distraction from myself
Instead of a mark on my body
I place a mark upon paper
I watch the ink flow from the pen
Happy that it's black
And not red
It bleeds into the crinkled paper
Mapping out the story
The story of my life so far
I don't think
I just write
Emptying my mind
My messed up mind
But the mess will never truly be gone
Just temporary relief
This is my relief


Poetry doesn't mean something,
Poetry is telling somebody who knows the truth, a lie and making them believe you anyways.


The air I breathe, the life I lead, everything I believe, poetry
The truest, permanent written form, at its finest
Even if it doesn't rhyme, every word is still the dearest
It's my relief from anxiety, my calm when I'm panicking
It's a sight for sore eyes when I wake up with a hangover and a headache
The only way I can express myself, show my deepest heartache
The only happiness I have when I'm depressed, my only friend when I'm lonely
My poetry and yours, day in and day out, is like oxygen to me
I can't breathe without poetry


A poet sees rivers where veins
run, caged birds where hearts
beat against ribs, stellar explo-
sions in place of emotion.
To be a poet means to breathe
through your eyes, to find life
in the weeds suffocating your
lungs, to build an ocean
of metaphors and memories,
never knowing which is which.


Poetry is art in itself
It is our passion that is slowly dying out throughout humanity
Because humanity is slowly forgetting what makes us human
What we survive on and die for everyday
But not us poets...
Our poetry is the chain to what we are
What we fought for all these years
What we die for trying to protect
For poetry is our mortality
Poetry is our life.

The fog hides the view
And lies hide the truth.
Trapped in both,
You flounder around,
Mirages cloaking you.
No matter how much you
Struggle,
You can't live if the
Veil remains.
Kick it, beat it,
Yell, scream.
It will still never be enough.
Once you have been
Free,
Mirages lose their enchantments.
Break out.
You can't see the world
Around you
If you're trapped
In a cloud.
If you know the truth,
The truth will set you
Free
Because you aren't forced
To rely on the perceptions
Of others.
They may be just as
Deceived and lost.

I write to make my voice heard
To put power behind every word.
Pen to page, things to say;
Change the world in a day.
I pick my fights with care
Jump walls like they aren't even there.
Pen to page, out of my way
Things to do, I cannot stay.

I write to run, I write to hide,
I write to fight the monsters inside.
Pen to page, I get away
But must again face the day.
Everyday a dangerous fight
Continues when I close my eyes at night.
Pen to page, my strength is new,
With just enough to get me through.

I write because it's what I'm told,
But words on a page is getting old.
Pen to page, what a chore!
Writing has always been a bore.
Words won't come; they never do.
This writer's block is nothing new.
Pen to page, just get it done,
A root canal would be more fun!

I write because I have to write,
An obsession with no end in sight.
Pen to page, words in my head
Remain unspoken, must be said.
A jumble of words begging to come out.
The power of some whisper, others shout.
Pen to page, words on a page
Stay strong and defy the age.

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow—
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream:
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand—
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep
While I weep—while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Swept off my feet
At first sight,
I did everything
That you wanted.
We danced and
We played and
We frolicked around;
Then you got
Distant and cold.
Then you left,
And my heart,
My heart broke.
You came back
And my heart,
It became whole.
I was happy.
You left again,
And I was
Sad, not broken.
You didn’t return.
I moved on.
I later learned
That you were
Playing with me
And my heart.
You needed me
More than I
Really needed you.
You thought that
It was a game,
But that’s okay.
You can have
Your petty games;
I’m not playing anymore.

IMPOSSIBLE

I-Is
M-Mainly
P-People's
O-Obvious
S-Self-
S-Satisfyi­ng
I-Illogical
B-Belief in
L-Little
E-Effort