Wait? Is he still here,
Maybe he never disappeared.
He was here all along,
I failed to listen closely to the song.
When it echoes in my ear,
Silently I can hear those words reappear.
To think I thought he left,
Show yourself if I've found you yet.

I wrote about
Heartache
Not following your
Past mistakes,

But, what about
The girls or boys
Getting *****,

Losing innocence
As such young age,
Not even
Knowing
What they lost?

Gained horrors
For a life range
Used
As toys for
A meaningless
Exchange,

Monster intoxicated
With lust
Roaming these streets,
That’s the real issue
No my clothes
You pin,

What a bad joke
Life is?
Instead being
Kind
We being stripped
From our
Dignity.

What is this thing called poetry?
Is it words on paper,
Lined up nicely,
Rhymes assembled tightly?
Or is it a little deeper than that,
Is poetry a feeling?
A little flutter in your heart,
An echo in the fabric of your soul.
Maybe it's a small candle spark,
Flitting in the dark,
As you sleep peacefully.
So what is this thing we call poetry?

The clean pages of paper I write on,
Differ greatly from the Google Doc I type on.
These titanium white sheets will be covered with time,
But an endless stream of opportunities is presented by
The typing exercise, using my computer to cope.
The words that I write encourage my hope.
Poems and prose that echo love and truth.
All the things I learned from my youth.

Your questions
So carefully
Selected

Like bullets
In a gun
You loaded.

Bang bang bang.
They only stop
When I am dead

Loud head. Silent mouth.
Loud thoughts. Empty words.
Loud pain.
Screaming, deafening pain.
Numbness.

Very much Alive
Very much Here
Very much waiting for a Career