What is involved in being poetic?
Is it that you have to bleed
when you feel
or remember what you felt like?

Is there a spark in your brain?
Does it tell you the words,
does it give you rhyme,
does it command your thoughts?

Or does it come from the heart?
Is it pumped through your veins,
breathed into your lungs,
is it in every fibre of your being?

What is it, to be a poet?
Is it skill?
Is it random?
Is it learned?

It is you.
You are a poem.

I sit and I stare
                         At the angel silently praying
                                                                          perched on a stack of books
Waiting.

The beliefs of others
                                  Do not rest in me
                                                                But this small angel sees
Into me.

She waits for me to realize
                                              Something
                                              Anything
                                           ...Nothing  
                                                                She waits like a gargoyle
for nothing.

That little angel
                           Keeps me thinking however
                                                                            about what she thinks exactly
I'll sit thinking forever
Because glass angels do not speak
Or so I thought

Does it ever cross your mind,
The feeling of your lips on mine
Your hand on my skin
I am yours, you are mine?

Do you ever stop to wonder,
Why you make me breathless
Why my cheeks turn pink
Why I smile when you're near?

Are you actually blind,
to hints
subtle glances
timid looks?

You cross my mind.
I wonder about you.
How I wish I could see

You are my question
But I feel like the answer

I crash
My mind hits the rocks
The tide sweeps away hope
Prevention was in the clocks

Time was ticking
The old father knew
sooner or later
Reality would blast a hole brand new

My beliefs and my Hope
My imagination ran wild
Malicious Reality intervened
Cunning Fate sat back and smiled

In one brief moment
All I thought was real
Laughs in my face
The vault is resealed

Realizations hit me
I sit and I cry
I am left beaten and empty
Silenting hoping no one will pry

Love and Faith
Take pity on my soul
The ways of the world are not my own
And carefully, I fill in the hole

It uses the seatbelt as a vesicle
Slithers across your shoulders,
prickles your chest

With every beat
It pounds into your heart,
wiggles into your veins

You're infected
But it feels so good

Your blood forgets oxygen
and caters to the pulse
flowing throughout your systems

At once, Gravity remembers it's job
angrily it sinks to your feet
pools and tenses

Wearily it exits through the sole
spiders into the floor
the music has left you

You are forever infected
And it feels so good

Steel flecks
on my rose of red,
sparkle
like death.

They wink
from my rose of red,
snicker
like jealousy.

Removal is futile
on my rose of red,
they prickle
like envy.

My rose of red
is tainted
by flecks of steel.
Poisoned.

A rose by any other name
would smell as sweet

A rose gazed upon through tears
can never be as meaningful
as the day it was given in
love

Black streaks race down
the flushed flesh of my face

A rose that stood for love
now stands for something lost

A rose sways solemnly
in a bed of forgotten flowers
the life ****** from its
youthful petals
though Death will ne'er take it

A rose by any other name
has thorns that pierce