My pen is my shield,


and my words
             my armour.

All wording not overly conveyed,
              I'm no dictionary.

My pen is my shield and my words
             my armour.

Sometimes dented, ridiculed,
            so not as lustrous as your

vocabulary giving,

but every symbolism
          I give in jest.

I can be a clown, watch my words prance on
              the page in fruitful

colouring of metaphor.

But other times I'm in the size seven
of another's outlook not my own,
emotion grazing my subconscious.

         For that fraction of eternity I'm them, you
I live there fears,  hopes wishes that die after I put the
                                                                ­             pen down.

Don't judge a piece of paper that has nothing on it,
           for will have a doodle, a thought..

A drawing of emotion entwined within its fabric.

   But you just ridicule, turn the page not knowing
                     the pain or joyful happiness
that went to create this...

Yes its not in your taste, but its there's, mine.

Were just artists of our own little world,
             and if you happen to land here.

Please be green..


   Recycle what you think,
and be positive,
    really do reflect on what others foresee.

We must first see what is the
achievable end  

     to first catch the glimmer of hope.


Of what started at the beginning
            and realise that to go forward
we must readjust.

But to change we must stare at the abyss
                           of our consequences,  
to realise that without diversity we'll
                            never transition beyond now.

This wasn't what he'd expected, since a wee little one,
       contorting the edges of fallen wood made thin.
What was rectangle became a triangle,
           what was just plain became more.

No fingers were used, a mind is a wonderous thing,
                                 Never wasted on this little one.
    
Creation, Imagination, as parchment clean crisp,
contorted to conception. But when it went wrong
            it rained snow flakes of ruptured imaginings,

Jagged and torn, papercutting those close.

Tears fell from his eyes as sorrow for skin bleed
not deep, but any more would have been a torment.

A thousand papercuts from a moment of
            frustration could turn paper crimson.

From that interim, knowing the power paper
had, be it words shapes, meaning.
       Learning that contours have potential and
wording on it was a powerful influence on others.

So began his journey as origami butterflies
             fluttering around him, calmness followed.
            Here child, as he handed a swan, and it swam
upon the innocence of there hand, and he walked onward.

Incandescent hues flutter around me,
          as nightfall's beauty graces
my  every sight.

This silhouette, a partner of illumination,
          still feeling the days touch even
                   though set beneath eventide.

Looking up the moonlight bathes
           my thoughts,

                                     and I'm at peace.

If we were the mirror of our creation
                and not made in perfect silhouettes.

Then we aren't the creation of perfection,
                           as were flawed beyond our sell by date.

Then that which made us is imperfect in its design.
                  So not omnipotent,
  flawed in its own blueprint.

And so just another pebble in
A dry pond where wishes die.