In the mist of all,
The pen is thy sword.
To guide words to a page.

Scribbling words,
Phrases forming.
Metaphorically speaking.
Like an actor with much,
Or too much.
Enthusiasm.

A heart is guided,
By its words.
The mind forms the phrases,
Pasting it to the page.

In the mind,
Images are forming.
Figuratively dancing,
In the eyes of the reader.

Many forms used,
Many styles created.
Forming phrases of wisdom.

The creator,
The master of this piece of art.
Forms Metaphors, Similies.
To say something.

A las!
Thy master piece is created.
Words pasted to the page.

This piece of art,
Was created by the writer.
Who is not afraid to share,
Their life story.
A writer by heart.
A Shakespeare in the making.

Creating poems of art,
Sharing their integrity.

They post their poems,
Unafraid to show their life.
That they live,
Everyday.

I write and I write
Sometimes for hours, sometimes for days
I write for fun, I write for therapy
I write because It's all I might ever be.

My writings are my thoughts.
Some lovely, some scarring.
With a pencil in my hand and paper in front of me,
writing away the monsters is the only way I can be saved,
at least for a little while, saved from reality.

I write and I write
Sometimes for hours, sometimes for days
I write when I'm happy, I write when I'm sad.
Like that, I will keep on writing, non-stop,
till I'm dead.

Mind numb, but really only asleep.
Blank, unperturbed, but that is impossible.
A white and blank sheet of paper is the impending rapture of peace.
We are commanded to improve the page.
Can one write on white with white?
Nay, a darker shaded mark one must leave.
For to write  a story one must have
both the black and the white;
Put in print
no need to sprint
to find what is said.

The Great writer made the world white,
and introduced a plight that allowed him to write.
And the print said to itself,
“The writer is out of sight; leaving us dark, cast and in the past.”
Til long at last all the paper shall be made anew.
In that day the page of black and white will fade to gray,
all the same will be arrayed,to start again.
Don’t ask when, just know;
That all will go from simple
to complex
to simple again.

La La La LA LA my mind is too LOUD
& it's an annoying distraction
It's stirring up a pretty thick cloud
Restlessness is taking over my attention
Blank stares are all my face shows
Deep into my thoughts I get stuck
BUT...that's how it always goes
it's just my wonderful luck
I am an unlucky Irish
& there sure isn't a genie around to grant my wish
My mind's explorer has too many tabs open & their "X" box to close isn't showing
No doubt the system will have an overload
I don't like the way this is going
With a lockdown in process, we're going to be in safe mode
GREAT, now popping up a message stating there's an error report
No GEEK squad could fix this mess
Don't even bother calling tech support
It's just an unfixable issue I confess
& it distracts me frequently from whatever I am doing
Good thing sanity isn't something I wanted to achieve
It will always be chaos, jumbled words & thoughts just brewing
Just occasionally, here & there, that some very needed silence I can receive
It's a place I don't go to play pretend
Too crowed & constantly a wonky massive amount of cluttering
Frustrating as being in a labyrinth with no end
Repetitive & out loud, sentence & words are what I am muttering
But I am far, far, far from crazy
I'm just distracted & on a mission inside my head
& I only seem like I'm kind of lazy
But if I don't complete this task, words & thoughts are forgotten, dusty & unsaid
So I do apologize
I tend to get lost between leaving & returning to reality
From time to time you may encounter me with eery, vacant eyes
.....a mix up between those though would sure weaken my stability
...so please excuse me if I seem to emotionlessly stare
Right through you like freshly windexed glass
Because honestly, I never once knew you were there...
You vanished in my path as you pass
Dealing with constant noise can be quite extreme
Like shouting for help but without a voice & remaining unheard
For a split second, a rare moment my mind may be clear & clean
Then flooded without warning, just a thought or hearing a word
Ideas to write all about are popping up everywhere
No pen or papers, useless ideas if they're forgotten
& sometimes they're really good & worth a chance to share
But sorting words & lost in brain waves happens way too often
Never relieved for break
Wish a silent corner I could temporarily find
Just a minute or two rest, such a difference it'd make
...WELL...DO YOU MIND???

Writers are brave
for every time they write,
they rip their chests open,
and let the world know
what is inside their hearts.

I draw these letters
Alphabets I was taught
The day draws its images
The night will blow them over
Forever, they are mere words

Writing in the sand
Symbols do not return
They are invisible
For the rest of years
No one will read

Poems left unpublished
No one will read
Novels burnt before
Marketing, but writing
Is my way out, my music

And my bread, the milk
And wine of my loneliness
So what am I to do?
These poems sharpen
My emotions, they love me

Across the night
Where I am but a ghost
In the conjunction of stars
I drew these letters on
A white canvas, they are

More me than anything
Else I have or will own
They know me better
Than the women who come
And go in my life

I will tell them my secrets
Poetry has set fire
To all poems, but I am that
Living fire, I am that warmth
Of a thousand glorious sunsets.

It's too late
They said as her petite frame
Spiraled then plummeted into the sea.
She's already ascended like a dove,
They felt no need to hesitate
At proclaiming the unfortunate's fate.

Always quick to hate
What they cannot annotate
Yet so eager to love
The greatest of us
Reborn from our ashes.

She took the leap
Not to cease
But to breathe -
Through airborne lungs
To see-
The greatest moments ignite
To fuse-
With an infinite moment in time
In one fleeting hope:
After the waves
Drew her lifeless limbs away,
After she slept
On the ocean bed,
Her words might eminently thrive
Though no one heard while her lips held life,
Their once-deaf ears would at last listen
To a phantom's composition.