Im not so poetic
Seem to trip up on my words
They came stumbling down the stairs,
And-- up and out the door
Landed right at your feet
Delivered so pathetically
But that's no rare thing
Your presence, it what you do to me

Made you (one) crack a smile
So you stayed for a while
And (two) sentences later I was staring back at the ground
So you (three) held my hand
And I finally I understand . . .

That you just ask me to be me, (four)
And nothing more

I used to dream
of being a great man
a heroic man
the kind that songs are sung of
stories are written of

The kind of man that leads people to victory
that sacrifices for the greater good
noble, honourable and courageous

But I realise now;
I am none of that - but;
I am a content man,
I am a happy man
In the end, I think I prefer to be happy
I think...

For everything has its own start
That change has its own beginning
It is when everyone took part,
And unity's no longer missing

Indeed nothing is impossible
Almost anything can happen
Even in our minds so fallible,
Our thoughts with problems so laden

Such inevitability
Confided with misconceptions
But change is an ability
All are provided with options

Now to all those who are asking,
Yes, change is linked with everything
Today can be the beginning-
The beginning of everything.

Being great
it's something I never think about
some people aren't meant to be great
some people are
that's just the way things go
but what if that wasn't true
what if greatness didn't actually
come to those who wait
but rather those who wanted to be great
who strived to be great
hell! who needed to be great
what if greatness wasn't reserved for the lucky few
but rather the deserving few
what if we sell ourselves short
before we even get to the cashier
what if our potential isn't something
that should be constantly ignored
pushed away to make others feel comfortable
what if
I think it's better to not ask those questions
but rather to put your head down
ignore everyone's advice
and do what makes you happy

greatness it turns out is just a caveat

I don't really remember much, but what I can't get out of my head is her eyes; not cold ice blue eyes, but warm sky blue eyes, that somehow find a way to warm my heart whenever I stare into them. I also remember her glasses, their night black frames, creating a beautiful contrast with her soft blue eyes and smooth alabaster white skin that glows in the sun light. And her hair; golden strands of woven sunlight that always seem to gleam and never lose their luster. Her lips were like soft carved roses, glistening in the sunlight whenever she laughed. And I almost forgot the little things; her laugh that was able to make me smile whenever, regardless of the situation, a laugh like the tinkling of bells, rushing of waterfalls, and all other wonderful sounds condensed into one unit. And her body, a figure fit for gods! But what I remember the least, the detail that escapes me the most, is her amazing scent. A blend of the intoxicating aromas of pine and lavender, all swirling around to create one of the vital details in her embodiment. Whenever I'm down, I close my eyes and bring together all these little details, and there she stands; my muse. But I will find her, the real her. For a life without my muse, is a life not worth living.

God existed,
Why'd he make me?

I must be worth something.
If I get to live.

He knows what I did.
He knows what I do.

And I'm sure He knows that someday,
I'll do great things too.

He chose me of all the angels above.
And so this is what makes me special.