Brick
        By
            Brick
A house is built
Hour
        By
            Hour
The house becomes a home
Day
        By
            Day
The home turns into memories
Year
        By
            Year
The memories turn into people
Century
        By
            Century
The people turn into stories
Story
        By
            Story
Stories turn into legends
Legend
        After
            Legend
History is changed
Piece
        By
            Piece
Lives are changed
Person
        By
            Person
Love is spread
One Love
        After
            Another
Bricks are purchased
That build houses
That turn into homes
That create memories
That turn into people
That turn into stories
That turn into legends
That change history
And it all started with
Just. One. Brick.

Is it words?
Is it rhythm?
Is it emotion?

Thoughts just jumbled onto a page,
in hopes that they match some literary device?

Structure.
Or imagery.
Parallel
                          ....lines?
Outside of
                                  ....the box?

But what's a box besides,
                                        What we make it?

Why can't we take
                our perspective,
                shift it    
                          ,
                                around
                                            And change it?
Write poems for,
                          a
                              new (or even all of them)
                                  generation(s)?

They don't have to rhyme.
Or make sense.
Or even be legible.
As long as it helps you, isn't that enough?

"But others read them too"

But they don't always.
Some poems I write on my worst days.
They're
            bad.
They don't,
                  rhyme.
My handwriting is.........
                                      crap.

The words aren't
                          even eloquent.
Putting
            them (my thoughts that is)
                          down to paper helps
                                    me  though.  (or is that too selfish)

But what
                is a
                          poem (a real one)
anyhow?

I guess I'll never, really, know.

a complement of three legs
kept the realm in a wobbly
modality
to have had a fourth one
would give an upright
totality

as this important limb
was missing in a forgotten
land
the locale disintegrated  
like a pan of moving
sand

the domain being beset by
ills too many to
mention
hence the citizens cried out
for another pole's
attention

a trio of pegs weren't
stable nor
strong
they did violently
shake minus the quads firm
prong

sometime in the future
the whole thing might just
brace
if a solid pin is attached
onto the
place

Anxiety is a cold, lilac purple.
It sounds like a care siren going off on a brisk September morning
It tastes like orange peels from yesterday's lunch
It smells like burning rubber
Anxiety feels like motion sickness from being trapped under impeding waves, with you hands tied to a post

Infatuation is transparent red.
It sounds like the quickened pace of a fox in the forest
It tastes like metallic blood pumping in the back of your throat
It smells like three week old lilacs
Infatuation feels like burrs stuck in the sleeves of your tattered wool sweater.

When sands grind me bare
and my world's gears stop turning,
I look to the wind

and wait for the sky.
for the sun to rage off of
my range of vision

until stars come out,
instead of looking at feet
I fix to the sky.

my star stares me straight
directly in my third eye
'sit still my son please

I've sat here for years
let me tell you a story
of Earth at its start.

the planet's alive,
a lot like you can't you see,
from fire and storms

mass extinction, death
out of, the earth came to be.
Earth was weak until

she spun her core so
tightly and quickly the wind
came alive. With that

planet earth found a  
cure for her fire. She found
beauty in balance,

constructed karma,
founded shifting sands of time,
dynamically brought

concepts of good and
evil to war with each other.
Positioned herself

in her suitable
orbit. Just follow the earth,
sit down, tame the fire.

Spin your existence
like her, and maybe you'll see
there's no need for breath

when wind fills your lungs.
Find your own balance within,
fight your own battle

learn desire serves
to feed flames, continue pain
life makes suffering.

Don't lose this battle
or your forces might make you
stay the same person.

If after you find
yourself trapped up on the moon,
don't fear traveler.

Fleeing far from home
you have started your journey!
One day you may find

Your own heaven place,
a perfect spot just to watch
the cosmos below.

And a star like me,
one day you're destined to be.
transcend all your pain

until we same speak.'
That's why I look to the stars,
through unsurety

I will keep swimming.
Knowing one day full well, I
belong in the sky.

This write, has me looking for more topics,
I feel the box, stuck in, inside wrong lines,
Wrong lines, right lines, why must I try to fit,
It is not fine, I am all out of time...

Words and words to make me feel so crazy,
I keep on the grind to get an idea,
Do I not get this or am I lazy?
Building this dumb poem, is this ikea?

Poems have some meter but this is top,
keys to the board, pen to this **** paper,
Trying to write just makes me want to stop,
but soon I will need an undertaker,

For if truly I must, prevail I will,
This dumb poem pattern has now been filled.

The way everything else does.
Everything has a foundation,
A solid block to stand on.

Songs need a perfect string of syllables,
And a cool, catchy tune.
A book needs character arcs
And a story that can make one swoon.

But a poem chooses what it does,
What it says and how it says it,

w e c a n s p a c e o u t t h e l e t t e r s
OR TYPE IN ALL CAPS.

i                            to                                          of
  am       limited          the                     lines         the
      not                                  implied                                page

and i dont rlly have to use proper grammer, nessisarily,

Because as long as a poem gets across its message,
The "why" of it all,
Well, that's a good poem in MY book,
My book of feelings nailed in the wall.