Where has the fire gone?
Extinguished by exhalations of exhaustion.
Cut down like grass on a lawn
Is a once lush poet-tree of creativity.

Did I heed the signs of caution?

Drowned by disappointment and shame,
I emerged alive, I survived,
But my hopes could not say the same.
They settled with the sediment,

Oh, how I miss when they thrived!

When did it occur,
The moment my heart was drained?
And who was the one to procure
The passion with which I was fashioned?

From stained glass to broken glass, stained.

The inventive ambition has waned,
The glowing spectrum has faded.
I pray all will be reattained.
For I am overworn and forlorn;

Once sculpting precious gems, now just simply jaded.

There is more knowledge then the things you learn in school. Public education alone kills creativity, school is to make you ready for the real world, but the real world is different for everybody. We are taught in our lives that we have to be working 40 hours a week 40 years of your life till you receive your retirement fund and be able to relax. Most of the meaningful things that you have learned in your life, that has helped you become what you want to be in your life is something that you will not learn in school. The most inspirational and life changing events that happen in your life have not happened inside a building that you sit in for 6 hours 5 days a week. We are supposed to believe that you can't do anything unless you graduate unless you go to college, you will not go far in life if you drop out of school. But yet we read and learn about inspirational people who have not completed a high school education, inside a classroom. Yes we all do need to be taught how to read how to use proper grammar and learn about the world we all live in. But so many things we are all taught we will not use everyone is born different will do different things.

Believe me it’s no coincidence that the greatest minds in history possessed a fair share of mental pain, the kind of terminal pain that worked on nearing the tip of a gun so close to your head, that the mere pressure would now **** you regardless of how physically strong you pertain to be.

Pain is the screaming noise in your ear when you’re most silent,
pain is a dead rose in a red garden,
pain is a soldier that never returned from the battlefield,
pain is breathing, only to fill your lungs with sharp knives and poison.

But pain is also the fresh twist of ink on a yellow paper,
a metaphor on the side of an abandoned building,
the disfigured face on an empty canvas,
pain is the sculpture in your local museum,
the revolution erupting under your skin, in the darkest recesses of your emotionally dysfunctional brain.

Tell them you didn’t lose the power to be happy, you only lost the need for ever having it.

Sometimes, you still feel love, but only in tiny shots, enough to etch the outer layer of your skin.

Pain… is a reminder of all the rebellion, wars, and suffering it took to bring you here today,
it is a reminder that you must do something about it, create something, silence this deafening roar of guilt.

Pain designed this world, joy was just a late guest to an already blooming ceremony; how silly of her.

do not rush to post
a poem written in the
early hours of morning
following a night of
indulging in dope or
Irish whisky neat
or a poem written
cold sober--you are
too close to your precious
creation to view it objectively

let the poem simmer
in your creative juices,
giving it a rest as a baker
does a ball of dough
after kneading it

let a few days pass then
reread your poem; read it aloud;
record it, listen to the recording--
does it read the way it hears?
revise appropriately applying
the process above to the revision

before you post the revised piece
edit for typos and errors
of grammar or spelling

following this process
shows you respect your poem
and your potential readers
who will read and respond in kind

Though my lips are smiling
My eyes are laced with sorrow
And somehow
I find the courage
to put down the knife
Handle the pen
And let my heart bleed in ink

We're all good at something
For God's sake
Stop thinking you're not creative
Stop thinking you have
nothing to offer this world
You can't sit there watching TV
Wondering why your life is so dull
Get off your *** and try things
Sew something
Keep a journal
Make spaghetti
There are a million and one
forms of art
And I assure you
You will find something that
sparks a fire
It will come naturally
and all at once
You'll know exactly
Why you were born
into this world
And what you're going
to make of your time here
You...
My friend
Have a purpose

You can ask any artist
how they bring their work to life
and still not get the answer
you're looking for.
There's no concrete formula
on how to be creative.
A writer writes the same
way a river flows.
It just happens.

The spirit of invention is a wild one:

it does not fear failure,
it craves adventure,
lives on inspiration,
it is misunderstood,
yet preservers trough the hardest of times...

It accomplishes the impossible and elevates the spirit to new heights...

It has passion for art, creation and perfection...

The spirit of invention lives in us all.
Dare to release it!

I dream of falling without fear
Off the cliff of safety
Into the clouds of possibilities
That cover the bottom of this
Mysterious darkness
And on the way
I learn to dare and at last hear
True sound of my voice
Certain as never before
I'm alive indeed
To scream of that which
Never left the prison
Of my mind
Embracing those who hear
With open power
Gift to those who stayed behind
Not calculate my steps
Not count my words
To be squarely in the middle
Of that which I cannot feel
Do not belive
I recognize
The voice of truth
When tears hurt my eyes
When urgency to run or grasp
Overwhelms me out of my frozen casket
Not like anyone else
I breathe and see and feel
Presence of those
Who make my soul vibrate
With deepest notes
Worth all the darkness
All sadness
I ever knew
To feel so deeply
No reason can comprehend
But unavoidably I recognize
My destiny on the way to the bottom
When my body
Will breathe no more
But in the last second of my flight
I knew I lived
And loved as hard as I had strength to give
Of myself, inside out