Praying breeds compliancy to evil lost in a flowing yellow river of inhuman insanity,
steel rusted chains sway in the devils mine,
supernatural whispers constrict your atmosphere,
ghosts strangling your reality the driving force of your ambition,
skull crushing fear that swallows us whole,
nothing more than an illusion of fictional time and space,
we are crippled by seething imagination of our internal false prophets,
rage into the cold crisp night confronting eternal salvation, laughing in the face of disaster, where the sky’s call your name awaiting a patient death,
never look back, our lives forever expanding past comprehensible understanding,
time disappears, existence lives on

When Bach and Amadeus
Died in their sleep and agony
I wonder if they knew
What they had achieved

Was it worth the cost?
When the Alps were 145 centimeters
distant from today
and the earth still folds your music
In between its subducting page

I want your great stratovolcanical violins
To extrude pumice and grindstone
to crush sweet music in between
Mt. Rainier and an unknown garden
made somewhere deep
in my quantum dream

The sky takes your notes
It is a great teacher as well
and swell, it does

It tells
me a quadrillion dreams
in every iterative puff of smoke
In every collapse of possibility
of every cat ground to paste upon the street
and all the ones that purr locally
In the arms of some caring soul
A lesser spirit dreaming
In the arms of their god

You play with a broken leg
or an unattached eye
or shaved cilia
And yet still
Your skill
Outmatched
none but ourselves

the easiest and hardest thing
about falling in love
is being a writer

What if it was us.
The bench held two
The car held two
The trail held two
The sand held two
The stereo held two
What if it was us?

What if it was you.
The bench took your time
The car lifted your spirits
The trial brought your journey
The sand held your footprints
The stereo held your thoughts.
What if it was you?

What if it was me.
The bench held my hopes
The car drove my dreams
The trail took my eyes
The sand held my breath
The stereo held my words
What if it was me?

What if it was us.
What if the bench held our heads
What if the car carried our baggage
What if the trial took our hands
What if the sand caught our falls
What if the stereo said our intentions

What if it was us?

I will turn you into a writer
My many metaphors will make you dizzy
My soft tones will make you swoon
My sentences flow in perfect rhythm

I will turn you into a writer
My words will be strung together cautiously and meticulously
My similies will leave you comparing each aspect of yourself to others
My lyrics are as powerful as my love

I will turn you into a writer
Because I will make you question your existence
I will love every part of you while burning the edges of your book
I will hold you down like an anvil on a pedestal

I will turn you into a writer
Because I will make you feel alive while tearing you apart at the seams
And I'll distract you with my stanzas
I will trick you into thinking I am a writer just like I will trick you into thinking you're in love with me

I will turn you into a writer
I know the best art comes from pain
I will make you hurt and you won't have a choice
The only place you will be able to go to escape me are your thoughts

I will turn you into a writer
Because keeping thinking destroys a soul
And I will always encourage you to share how you feel
And what better way to do that than to write about me

The title is the declaration,
The beginning of the confrontation.
Strong and brave words,
Yet disguising a hidden meaning.
The opening stanza is the explanation,
Describing in fact and logic
How and why we feel,
Yet disguising the feelings themselves.
The middle of the poem is the emotion,
Grasping towards the heart of the soul,
Exploring what makes us human,
Yet not providing a satisfying ending.
The final stanza is the end of the argument,
The dramatic finish where you turn on your
Heel and walk away, leaving your foe
With nothing but a look of astonishment.
Yet sometimes, The Poet may not
Complete the task in real life.  
Our victories must be written out,
Preserved in ink or on a hard drive,
Because The Poet doesn’t have enough courage
Without his words by his side.
Yet that is the way of The Poet.