I also wondered
why we call them sunsets,
when the sun is clearly
not the one who is setting.

put yourself in the sun's shoes.
the sun can't set of it's own accord.
the sun doesn't realise it's
making those pinks, purples and oranges
on the horizon.
the sun doesn't know what
a horizon is.

we human beings create all of this.

the human mind makes
the horizon
and then it makes the sun
set on it.
those pinks, purples and oranges
are forged inside your eyes.

next time you see a sunset,
tell yourself:
'it is me who is setting the sun.
the sun is setting
and I am the one who is
doing it.'

feels good, doesn't it?

today I read a series
of rules
for writing poetry.
one that caught my eye was:

"If it hasn't been edited, it isn't a poem. It is a draft."

it was stated with such conviction, I was convinced.
I said to myself:

"I've never written a poem... these are all
drafts."

but this guy also said:
never rhyme,
use the word soul
and you should be shot,
if it doesn't sound beautiful
it isn't a poem.

also he was writing rules
on how to write poetry.
who does that?
I resolved that he must be
a pretentious ******.

this is the raw stuff
that we all have to work with.
but no one ever publishes
their first draft.
so we're stuck
living in our own raw
footage,
and comparing it to
everyone else's highlight reel.

if you don't want to call this
poetry, that's fine.
you can **** on
my initial *****.

there's a girl behind me
wailing, falling to pieces,
and i'm too terrified
to even turn around.
I feel like an *******.

I turned off my music
to hear what she was saying.
she only screamed.

I looked around the bus and saw
that everyone was doing
as I was doing:
listening, but trying to look
as though we weren't listening.

we were all embarrassed
that someone was breaking down
and it was too real
for any of us to accept.

what's wrong?
what can I do to help you?
come for a walk with me.
let me hold you.

these are some of the things that
I was screaming inside my head,
but I
couldn't
even
turn
a-*******-round.

I'm just a simple dreamer
With thoughts and passions
Bigger than my body

Thoughts uncontrolled,
Unbridled, run across
Plains of white,
Mountains of shadows

A dreamer who had
Rather look up at the skies
Whether there be grey clouds,
Starry nights, harsh sunlight

Someone who had rather spend
Midnight, looking and talking
to the moon, pretending to hear
A response to all the mindless drivel

My thoughts go unheard
As they run across those
snow-white plains, across
towering shadows, till one day

The plains crumble to give way
The shadows burn
Just an orange flame left
Where they once existed