Hey,
Before you hit send, here's a thought on the mend:
Try to end a possible falsehood in yourself -
Views, hearts, and artificial sunlight is not wealth;
Words are measured most by meaning,
So if you mean to speak true
If you mean to be intrinsically you:
You're living the colors none else can glow
You bring a message none others know -
You are feeling wrought through form
Nothing less could be so warm.

So please don't worry about some silly quarry
Poetry's not a popularity contest
Being yourself shouldn't have to be a test;
Everyone deserves a chance to rest
and just write.

This world will try to drain your dreams;
This world will try to find your seams,
And pull 'till your hopes turn to screams;
This world will try to take you apart;
This world will try to break your heart.


And when you're as low as you can possibly be,
When you feel you're too weak to ever be free;
When the light of hope is too far to see,
This world will try and convince you of something tragic:
That there's no such thing as magic.


The world is wrong.
Magic exists in a natural smile;
Magic exists when it was worth every trial;
Magic exists when one falls in love;
Magic exists in each and every dove.
Magic exists between the pages of a book;
Magic exists ¬¬-- you've only to look.

Why Newton would tell you not to wear a seat belt

Going two miles-per-hour you’ll hurt yourself casually,
But if you add a zero to that you will be hurt incredibly.
Fine day we’re having, sure but the roads do look nasty.
No i’m sure it’ll be fine. But little did they know
their brains are soon to look like,
Well, dead brains.

Speeding two-zero-miles-per-hour,
Then in a flash, hearing scorn from Simon Cowl.
They’re in hell now,
Feeling very dead now.
This poem is deteriorating.
But it still rhymes.
So entertaining.

If I were short
On Love
Would you care?

There is poetry
that rubs on my bones like sandpaper
I am waning under the weight
of losing myself
to mediocre creative expression
as I write with my arthritis fingers
pieces of who I am
drop to the floor
leaving loneliness to fight
with the happiness my mind is trying to find
as my bones become ghosts
of what they were when I was born
fragile to the touch
of everyone I ever loved
God looks at me as his only failure
He never expected for me to fade
this quickly
beside the guided worries
that I was never meant to be alive
these words change my mind for
a moment in time
but I am still left with
a self destructing body
and a decaying mind

wait no

Poems aren't written,
they're found,
Somewhere in your head the words are waiting,
They're sprawled across the floor,
You just need to pick them up,
Make a path with them,
Let your path guide observers,
And if you can't write,
Walk down somebody's else's path first,

When I traverse the lowest valleys
and climb the highest peaks
I break forth my journal
my pencil and I feel

In the dark, it lights a path
in the light, it bursts the dark
though I must admit I write the most
when I'm in the dumps

I spit onto pages
venomous oceans of blue and black ink
in life, I've no way of reaching him
or is it for a person, a concept, or a thing?

Will pretty eyes mind poetry?
Or is that something misperceived?
Am I only screaming at dead trees
for the rest of my life; for eternity?