As the fire echos shadows on the wall
And the chains rattle with every movement
I name the things as I understand them to be
Ball, tree, beautiful butterfly
I know these to be lies but i can't seem to see
Craning my neck I see a blinding light
Blind to me at least
I begin to understand, a very fluid plan
Life through light and dark

Down to Earth,
Something better than before,
High expectations turn low
Lower than hell's last floor
I'm supposed to be
better than those I succeed
So why is it I write poetry?
"No Future"
"No Money"
I need a lively hood
I need to fly far away

I sit up in the morning
Mourning
I still heed that early warning
I want to wait for this
Sunbeam to start pouring
Into window refraction bliss
Hoping for a sun-kiss
Maybe shoot some hoops, a miss
I miss the elementary days
when we'd all go out and play
basketball before going on our way

Land changes, Seas change, Skies, and life, too.

If one escapes life too often, their life becomes their escape.

Everything is scrap until one needs it.

The world belongs to itself.

I write what I wish...
That being said,
I wish I had what I write
I write what I wish for
If I write about love, her sickly sweet scent
I wish I had it in the moment
If i write about rays of sunshine
It is raining in my world
If I write erotica
I wish I lived it, felt it
If i wish for sadness,
I would write about it
For I write what I wish

Defined as
"works produced by an author or artist while still young"
And I've still got a long way to go

In dead cold blizzards
typically one does something...
Warming

so scooch a little closer
and lets do something
Warming together