I write symphonies.
Not with a pen but a brush.
My words aren't spoken.
They are thrown.
They are splattered.
I feel each stroke as a note.
A cellist writing his greatest concerto.
A masterpiece.
And I'm writing for you.

I stand in front of the mirror; It’s confusing to see,
A thousand faces looking back at me.
A gray haired old man,
A boy of eighteen,
One guy is nice,
The other selfish and mean.
One knows where he’s at.
Another is lost,
He looks for direction
No matter the cost.

One has much confidence.  One insecure.
One gives up easily, and one can endure
The trials and hardships
Inherent to life.
One is dull, plain, and boring
Another sharp as a knife.
One is happy and joyful,
One can’t stop the tears,
That fall freely and frequently,
As he ages in years.

One is satisfied with what he’s accomplished to date.
Another looks at the world with envy and hate,
And wonders why others
Are passing him by,
Should he laugh at himself?
Or silently cry?
One believes in a power,
Much greater than self,
Another, a hypocrite,
Puts his faith on a shelf.

One knows lots of people; One a loner by choice.
One never speaks out.  One revels in his voice,
Tells his story to all,
Who will listen (pretend?)
While they wait and they hope
That the story will end.
One still has hope,
Another hope-less;
One tracks dirt through the house.
Another cleans up the mess.

One looks at the world, poised to attack,
Another seems not to care; he is calm and laid back,
One wants to know more,
One has seen way too much.
One wants to hold tighter,
One recoils from the touch.
There are too many faces,
None of them clear,
So I turn out the light,
I walk away from the mirror.

I just want to write a poem no one ever thought of writing
It must have the same effects as walking on the moon
It must trend faster than a meteor as it  hurdles through cyber space

I refused to love any man, who dislikes my poetry,
My man must support my passion ..
not only the warmth of my body
but the passion within this poetess, my secretive mind he must be able to balance:
Without wondering why a woman like me is so naturally secretive
I am always embracing the dark side of my creativity
Dropping little hints here and there throughout the years,

Sidney   J. Harris once said something that left pondering thoughts
He said “When he hears somebody sighs,
'Life is hard,' he’s always tempted to ask them, 'Compared to what?'
I would simply say dog-gone it: Compared to struggling poets whose tries to make a living as a writer

While an upcoming rapper like Chief Keef
signed a several-million dollar deal
with offending lyrics in today music industries:

I just want to write a poem no one ever thought of writing,
With lots of intense emotion bursting through each line:
Because a poem can’t exist without a poet's multiple voices
and most of all his divine missions

sadly, i'll always love you.
even if you don't love me, and
that is the worst feeling ever

I still remember the first time I ever fell asleep in your bed. every time I opened my eyes I saw your lips slowly part and your eyelashes flutter and I swore you were the most beautiful art piece I had ever seen. we spent the entire night high off of infinities only pills could promise, watching the world around us swirl into galaxies I had spent hours telling you about. we smoked two packs that night and after every one I swore it was my last. every time I outlined your lips I swore it'd be my last taste. every time I laced our fingers I swore it'd be the last time. every time I put my hands in your hair I swore it'd be different. 8 months later and I can still taste you when I smoke my cigarettes and I still see you through the clear capsules. I can still remember what it felt like to wake up to your grumbly hello and how nothing will ever quite compare. I still remember the first time I ever fell asleep in your bed. every time I opened my eyes I realized I'd never love another human being like I do, you. do you remember?

Flashbacks
Snapshots
Of a different time
A different me
A different perception
A skewed reality
An easy deception
An ignorant little girl
Who had too much to drink
A wild little queen
Who never stopped to think
Now all she sees
Is a broken mirror
Fragments of memories
Nightmares and PTSD
Institutionalized and forcefully taken
No salvation
Only one violent revelation