There is power unfettered
In one’s right to write
Universes upon screen or page
Weaving words like clay or paint
To express or depress the senses,
As even us gods chase for the holy grail
Of inner peace and enlightenment therein,
So waste no further on fruitless squabbles
And show me world’s within your pen.

Last night my poem hit 10,000 degrees,
Does that mean I burned myself a place in HP?
Or am I still on the path of becoming,
Hoping to get a lucky stroke and blow up?
Almost everything I post gets a reaction now,
I'm a name people know,
But does that make me somebody though?
What if I'm an actor,
Just playing his part,
I'll disappear when the director yells, 'Scene!'
If my art is recognized,
I've accomplished something real,
While living a dream.
But I am author enough,
That I could have a career in this?
Or will I start this journey,
But hear them yell, 'Dismissed!'

It's all a little weird,
The way things fall into place.
How life seems to catch us,
When the time is just right.
Life found me when I was glum,
It told me to write.

I sleep with my
top hat on these days.
It keeps the rabbits from
crawling out and running
away.

They are the safest close to
my brain when I sleep.
I don't want them eaten by
feral swine or to wander
off and drown in a vat of wine.

The magic show will
start soon, and I'll pull them
out when least expected.
The crowd will gasp and groan
when I saw the woman in half.

"It's just a trick,"  I yell.
"She's okay, sleight of hand...see."

They know better, the blood
isn't fake.
They see the horror of the
magician's life, even though
it entertains. We all wish it
was an illusion, but it's
showtime.

What if I'm wrong?
What if I'm on the wrong side?
What if they're right?
And they did nothing wrong?

Maybe I need more proof,
Maybe I need to let this go,
I want this to be a safe space,
I pray for a safe HP.

Is there a way we can have peace,
Where no one gets hurt anymore,
Is there a way we can have peace,
Without tearing apart HP?

73 drafts,
73 finished poems,
73 pieces I can't post,
73 plus instances of 502,
Bad Gateway.

Midnight blue
The the blue that is magical
As it is like a wizard's robes
This I say it exposed the stars
And the moon as it is really its
To say that midnight blue
Is not really blue is not a facbut a superstitious
Thing to thing
The superstition mountains
A North americn treasure is
Indeed a haunted pleasure too
As you go up they poke holes
Into the midnight blue
Giving way to the eerie
An supernatural
Goings on in the superstition
Mountains
Be it cloudy or clear
See the bug dipper spill beer
As a ufo flies past you
This colour of blue is
Nothing more than a superstition
Or too
To think that the mountains are not haunted
You are living a fantasy

The sun shines
But though it
Hides from time to time
The sun is still shining
But like the stars and moon
It is hidden by the day light
At the height of its beauty
There dies the cherry blosson
To make way to the cherry
Am I making sense with this
As the leaves turn colour and
Fall
The beauty gives way to
The death of winter
Winter when everything dies
And renews its self
This I say that the nature
Is know different from man
One dies and another is born
And so on and so on
This is just the cycle of it all
Now Let's have a ball
In the fall are the stars
Come out of hiding to
Greer the sleeping and the dead
Lets break bread  and be on
Our merry way
This is the cycle of life
And death
The promise that is annoying
But the greatest promise of all
The continued cycle of it all.