i write poetry
my name is mark and it does
not really matter

A God all alone in empty total dark,
had thought to start up creations spark.
To build upon that black empty view,
all those things his thoughts made anew.

Where and with what should he begin,
with only darkness there to keep it in?
Mechanics drawn from rigid Physics laws,
so time would carry out evolutions chores.

Only God alone right there at the start,
hydrogen made as if from some godly ****.
Clouds that swirled and time then congealed,
until mass and gravity his plan then revealed.

Ignition of that first ball of gaseous light,
that brought an ending to the longest night.
Deep in that furnace new things were made,
a realm where matter and time both played.

Changing substance and the shape and form,
by the passing of time and by cosmic storm.
All elements to make every building block,
of galaxies, liquids, gases and every kind of rock.

So the plan moves on at his chosen godly pace,
filling all of time and all corners of outer-space.
Ever changing all things into something more,
God all alone knowing what its all been for.

Behold the smooth transition of brushstrokes and bristles to the field of marigolds.
The sweet friction brought by divine hands, is the depth you were searching for.

And as the storm rolls in, high on the technicolor clouds, you take a moment to catch your breathe.
Next thing you know the rainbow wildfire blooms from the painted raindrops, setting the flowers ablaze.

It is a world created of mind made matter, and if you cannot see the parallels, then you lack the imagination!

Any fiction can carve its way into reality, that is the truth of all worlds.

That is the key, forge your ambitions and blow the doors wide open.

Why do we exist to merely die in the end?
What is the point in simply changing our way's of communication?
Why must we feel pain before we can feel whole?
There are no answers to these and yet,
We all have our answers to each question.
Each answer either being chosen for us by written scripture of the past,
Or by our own past experiences,
But one thing is for certain,
The only answers that we can get to these questions,
Are from our own past's.
The past does influence our future,
Yet our future is what alters our past,
It blinds us into thinking that we were someone we were not,
It binds us to think we have changed,
When in reality,
The truth to all of this,
Is that it doesn't matter.

Whoever needs to hear it:
abuse is abuse no matter what kind.
Physical, mental, verbal, ******,
none of it is OK. It will never be OK.
Whoever needs to hear it:
men, women, non binary,
however you identify yourself,
just because you "can take it"
doesn't mean you should have to.
Whoever needs to hear it:
you didn't do anything to deserve it.
Whoever needs to hear it:
you have nothing to be ashamed of.
It's OK to ask for help.
And Whoever needs to hear it: you matter.

Each word I exchanged with you,
each one of them is raining down on me
like falling stars.

The sky I looked at alone,
seemed like it was about to swallow me up.
I was afraid.

The starry night we shared was incredibly brilliant,
it somehow seemed unstable.

A single petal that came in my life.
Only you mattered.

This is my punishment.

life fends its ache in a solid state of lumber
stretches grouted brawn
and sets its stresses on duty

gaseous pollution meets the daylight
a warming flatulence of the productivity byproduct
labour

orb
parching an arc over the brow
and easing an erase into the eve

then to
the night solution
a fluid of festivity
*** excite in arts and the conduct
a canvas of tincture
to suspend our culture
                        in-bedded

the witching hour is only a blink
a jiff and a wink
a humour in the plasma state
break
the process is reignited
and for that brief movement
cleaned out of heads
we are simple
guided