there were worlds in my eyes that no one else could see....
they called me a dreamer, the way I would imagine the world not as it's truly seen
I was anything but....
I was set apart
always running in circles as they all think it's so easy
but I was living in a non reality
my mind spoke to loud
they have no idea how everything is so hard.

Somewhere between words and a phrase
And images that waltz on a page
Naked or masked, with a ** and a hum
Read me in the lines of a poem.

Curled up with flair in cursive ink
Or in italics that make one think  
In bold scribble of soulful blues
Meet me in a syllable of haiku.

In sounds and rhyme, in free flowing feet
In rolled up, crumpled paper sheets
On kissed ends or in couplets terse -
Trace me in a little verse.

Midst damp and broken metaphors
In sentences loud or hushed whispers
Hidden behind some quaint smilie
Find me in poetry.

Poesy — a world large enough to hold
Sordid moments in its fold
Sweetness of life and broken hearts
Harsh reality and runaway art.

A series of numbers in which each is the sum of the two proceeding numbers. This is different than Pascal’s triangle.
The formula is as follows: Fn = Fn-1 + Fn-2, where n >1. It is used to generate a term of the sequence by adding its previous two terms.
Solve the following examples.

1. flowers
    little people in dresses
    dancing in the ballroom
    the world is on fire;
    we bend faster
    when the wind howls
2. hurricanes
    the ocean is quite
    warm
    i let myself
    sink
    the sky rips
    apart
3. pinecones
    in the bed underneath
    a mother
    her children gather
    snow for breakfast
    breakfast in bed
4. spiral galaxies
    the naked eye
    beholds the beauty
    of hands we no longer see
    blinded;
    we are drowning in light

For years, the voices have risen—
from parched fields, from coastlines swallowed by the sea,
from homes turned to ruins by winds too fierce to be natural.

They ask not for mercy,
but for what is owed—
a recognition, a reckoning.

In glass towers and conference halls,
the wealthy nations turn away,
their signatures missing from promises long made,
their hands gripping wealth built on a burning planet.

Storms rage louder now,
waves crash higher,
droughts stretch longer,
but still, they hesitate.

The ones who suffer know the weight of inaction,
measured in lost harvests, displaced families,
children breathing in the dust of what once was home.

And yet, there is hope—
a whisper in the winds,
a trembling in the roots,
a gathering of voices that refuse to be silenced.

This is not charity.
It is justice.
It is the past catching up with the present,
demanding to be acknowledged.

There is no more time for debate.
No room for delay.
The debt must be paid.
Before the earth takes it in blood.

There is so much of noise in this world.
The sound of everything around me feels so exasperating.
I dwell here, hearing to the  noises of people.
I feel to go away and live in the world which is more tranquil than this clamorous world I live.

The people here also live with the bitterness,
Forgetting the beautiful emotion called love.
They burn with the rage of attaining the world.
But they forget about the things that make them happy.
In search of happiness, they forget the life they are living.

Oh I live here in the awful world of desire,
Where I crave for nothing but the love.
But my soul in this world disappears somewhere,
where it fails to attain the peace I yearn for.

When half the world turns cold and fades to grey,
The flowers weep, their colors torn apart,
And light surrenders, lost without its ray.

The skies once blazed with gold at break of day,
Now hollow specters whisper in the dark—
When half the world turns cold and fades to grey.

The rivers, once alive in bright array,
Flow silent now, as if they’ve lost their heart,
And light surrenders, lost without its ray.

The echoes of a sun too weak to stay
Stretch long across the fields that fall apart—
When half the world turns cold and fades to grey.

No songbird dares to lift a tune in play,
Their voices muted, broken from the start,
And light surrenders, lost without its ray.

Yet still, I hope the hues will find their way,
That color will return where shadows start,
When half the world turns cold and fades to grey,
And light surrenders, lost without its ray.

It has been so long
Since I put my cloak on
To hide behind the closet
to look within and forget.

Boring wars
Nothing to lose
Heading out without lumber
Heavy nails
Wooden glues
Spackled shoes
Building halos
Over do

And i have to welcome
Where we come to
For those you wouldn’t lose
Loving myself angry greys
Since a boy’s missing toys
Meltings mountains
You’ve destroyed

And freeways fly me nights
Following cant’s bitter spites
Kingdoms come and kings wont blues
Remember we got the news
She’s gone, she’s never, never
Going to pry

Leaving you a bridge we loaned
Walking homes just the dad’s
And now i'm coming in
Without holding up a frame
Irish lines new and bold
Get to know what
I’m the boy

Stopping life’s not a choice
It’s how a built a voice
Expressions, excepting it
Deadly, ways playing games
Now i hate to love
Completely changing, changing ways

does anyone feel the ticking of the clock -
a deadline, a rush, a finality
an end to our ways of living.
in the brink of another calamity
overwhelmed by the world
of devastation and cruelty.
striking down the minority,
aiming to breathe,
swimming up against the current,
the water invading our lungs -
we are drowning.

Soothing hue, tranquil blue.
A scene serene in testament to you.
I thank it, this blanket hung soft in the sky,
and drift on the breeze, the mute lullaby.
We are children of stars, all of us each,
if you look way back far beyond memory's reach.
Past fire and lightning, spirit and beast,
our atoms return, and stars we complete.

Look to the sky, our bubble of blue.
A window our parent forever feeds through.
A gentle notion, and grace in a descending motion
so subtle we feel only a warmth on our face as we float in a breathable ocean.

A mirror perhaps it holds above
and paints in clouds the world
with spires and cities and oceans
and shifts so subtle in ways unseen
so we won't forget the nature
of where we've been.

For though the world seems still and quiet
it shifts and it's easy to pass by it,
as we focus on each little thing
there's a joy that it brings, our Ozone,
in its patterns of premature recognitions
shapes that are born in a state of remission
and only those who are readily staring
see that the earth is patient and caring.