Love
-when the word is spoken it can seem bitter sweet.
-like candy that rolls off the tongue with a faint yet sour-sweet taste.

Freedom
-to some but a dream to others declaration
-keeps one smiling, looking forward to the future, while another takes for granted, doing all that they wish.

Friends
-people nearby, convenient and useful. People you love, care for, want to be with forever.
-used like tools to better yourself, cared for too much betrayed and alone, or stuck with forever; home away from home.

Depression
-tears, a sadness, a hate for yourself, unable to think so-called "happy thoughts"
-told its fake, just learn to smile. Going untreated, spark in eyes gone for awhile.

Strength
-physical, mental, objectively so. Not always the greatest but strive to be so.
-causes fights, ruins friendships, who is better? Measurement of abilities to see who is a go-getter.

Beauty
-a social construct, designed to keep in charge those who value their own opinion. Not caring who they make hurt inside.
-true beauty, being oneself, something hard to come across. Too wrapped up in others words to take a look at what they've lost.

Heroes
-"anyone can be a hero, even you."
-but if we believe that's true, why do we hold them so high above the rest, if anyone of us qualify for the test?

If you would create something,
you must be something.

The poet sits at his desk, his head empty of stories,
the inkwell running dry and the quill motionless.
He used to write about heroes on deadly quests,
rescuing stranded maidens from castles and forests,
always slaying a dragon or two along the way,
but heroes are surprisingly hard to come by these days.
He must adapt to the shifting paradigms in his culture,
all the heroic stories have been lapped up and forgotten,
now people demand some originality in their reading.

He scratches his head and muses on a dream he had,
an actor in a play suddenly consumed by stage fright,
freezes mid-performance as the crowd grows confused.
The audience mutter amongst themselves if this is part of the performance
but those who have been before assure them this is something new.
The actor is covered in flop sweat and his mouth quivers,
anticipating his next line but time is escaping him.
As audience members begin to stand up and shout at the actor,
the memory of the dream fades away and the story goes unfinished.

The poet slams his hand on his desk, knocking the quill to the floor.
He slams his hand down again and the blank piece of paper
sticks to his hand and he cannot shake the thing off.
A moth flies in through the window and attacks the candle flame,
burning its wings and shedding its dust upon his desk.
He thinks maybe he should write about this evening,
the lack of inspiration and a fight with a leaf of paper,
but no one wants to hear a story about that,
the readers demand action and intrigue and mystery,
all of which is lacking for this poet at his desk.

Men’s best successes
come after their disappointments.

We risk our lives everyday
every time that we clock in,
it's our way of life and what we do
  its the way it's always been.
  
We wake at 3 am to bells ringing
and sirens blare,
we leap to our feet and go get dressed
to fight deep in Hells lair.

In the darkness we don our gear
******* helmet and boot,
as one these brothers all get up
go sliding down the chute.

We run to the truck now wide awake
and with ease we slide in,
we put on our headsets to hear each other all other noise becomes a low din.

We race to the scene where smoke is showing
no one knows who got out,
we put on our airpacks and our masks
to talk we must now shout.

With axe in hand we enter therein
the Devils home amidst the flame,
we quickly search for everyone
boy, girl, man and dame.

The air is hot we can feel it through
the clothe armor that we wear,
but on we search through the building
till we realize we're low on air.

Another​ crew goes in
In their hands the hose
To find the seat of the flames
It's advancement to oppose

We cut the roof we pull the ceiling
Our hands and feet lose all feeling

We find a child we cover them up
We rush back to the door
We bring them to safety and go back in
To check and search for more

For hours the cycle repeats
Till all is said and done
The fire is out, we've done our job
This time we won

No fire is left and all are safe
We put our tools and hose away
And go back to the station
Where hopefully we'll get to stay

Our gears been scrubbed
Time to rest our exhausted bodies

We wake at 8 am to bells ringing
and sirens blare,
we leap to our feet and go get dressed
to fight deep in Hells lair...

The wise know where a hero stands--
upon the shoulders of another man.
Or a woman. Truth be told,
there’s more to legends than what we’re sold.
There’s a legion behind every famous one:
Footsoldiers, workers, slogging from sun to sun.
They build the movement that changes history--
collective action—not Him; it’s We.
Or the art, or invention, of ground-breaking power,
from a  “genius” who above us does tower.
His inspiration is the work of others,
connected souls-- sisters and brothers.
Each weaves a strand of the magic thread.
From hundreds of others the genius is fed.
He finishes work with skillful design,
then sometimes falsely claims “it’s mine.”

You are as raisins you clean persons blood.

Life in full sprint high resolution and great details.

Once, grapes of green now a purplish black.

Your drees drapes the wooden floor white oak