Hush child
It's time to go
They are coming
They running through
The bleak and dreary fields
They want to destroy
They want to ****
But we must not stay
For tales of our people's
Strength lives on
We the weak
Will never die
Because our hearts
Are filled with bravery
Filled with passion
We protect those we love
Now Hush Child
Run
You are the future
When all is forgotten
You will live on
Hush child
Run

Purple flower—
lonesome afterimage;
a fighter with a purple eye.

The way I have dealt with my traumas
Has varied.
They have moved as swiftly
As the seasons change,
And have always adapted to the current climate in which I live.

For a short while, I could pretend as though
Nothing happened.
I could pretend as though my pain was as
Invisible as their ability to love me,
And that I was as unaffected as
An old oak that has weathered storms past.

Then came my acceptance, and my fight.
I fought.
Hard.
To be seen, and heard, and believed.
But alas, this was not to be.
It was then I learned, that sometimes silence is what is needed
To weather a great storm.

Then came the talking.
With endless cups of coffee,
And whistles that glowed in the dark,
I learned what it truly meant to share my pain
With one that would not tell my secrets.
Who could not tell of the demons dancing throughout my head.
To truly learn that trust can
Also weather a great storm.

Finally, has come nothingness.
I try, desperately to forget the remaining threads that
Tether me to my memories,
Even when I still can’t sleep with my back away from a wall.
It is not a time I wouldn’t be keen to forget.
There is no storm worth remembering to weather.

There is no storm worth remembering.

All the shortest summers,
I compare a love to a beautiful day,
Tempted temperatures; this artistry close to lust,
There's a careless wind of having nothing to say.

But summer's a bit short,
by these winter chills down my spine,
You leave so lovely; missing a bright complexion,
And of course; that lovely bright smile.

All that's fair; but feels dimmed, and trimmed,
Cut off from your love, I held to my very last,
Opened my eyes to yours; to feel I once dreamed.

But I do scare of beauty's fade; coming to our age,
When all our possessions are but empty, and cold,
Children remembering us as shadows under shade.

Time grows. And I've grown deep roots into love,
But love often is this constant battleground.

But I'll be one keen to fight all for you.

Let's talk about revenge,
with a poem that ignites the fire
and then burns an identity.
You will find a sleeping monster within you
that you have been deliberately ignoring.
Let's talk about how an upheaval in the bodies oppressed reality,
a war that rages inside our heads.
I am a liberation warrior.
You are a comrade of struggle.
A spirit that is no longer
only shown in the metaphor of words
or the love of romantic characters
in the love life that haunts adolescence a lot.
Let's talk about revenge,
a fictional monster,
and a boy who stands bullied
wanting to show his identity
in every ******* world order.
Losers behold, those who flock!
And for he has long been alone,
fighting monsters in poisoned brains,
and a stomach that is only the main goal
of fighting for power,
now we are again in vain.
Let's talk, really the truth!
No love grows other than our love for ourselves.
Awaken!
Even if neither you are the hero,
nor the main character!

holding up a peace sign
while dodging their land mines
studying the art
of how they fight

with a journal in my left
and a pen in my right
i'm naive enough to think that war could end
but wise enough to know
that there is no hope in pretense

so i'm holding up a peace sign
along with a journal bound in leather
aware that peace signs do not mean surrender

and folks like me,
we tend to fight forever.

You are the elixir
of overworked men
a companion
for lonely souls
and a boxing ring
for the fighting spirit
Your camaraderie
leads to immediate
regret
but such pain
forces peace
in the new day