I write with honesty and drape it with emotion.

I wash my words with tears and dry them in anger.

I never read my words out loud, my tongue has no taste for them.

I don't notice anyone sees my writes as I notice nobody feels them.

I tap my words on to a screen as I watch my tv.

I write my words just with me and expect nobody.

Words scrape raw into my mind, on to the screen.

They reap my pain in the most simplest way.

It's not very beautiful, not like my hello poetry friends, but it's just like me no time for etiquette.

The words stumble from my mind, much like someone who has lost thier way.

And my heart reads into every line, even when I say I bare none.

Be it rushed, sloppy and brazen...

My words always always find their way onto my hello poetry page.

I get lost in all of my fellow writers, writes.

But it's no surprise, because that's how it is in my everyday life.

I'm lost and I'm found, alot down and almost never sound.

I write how I live.

I write only what I live...

My echoes are all I have to give to my hello poetry friends.

I am not blind now,
but once I was

Blind to the hate of man
Blind to your hate of me
Blind to your lies and tricks
Blind to the dying sea

Blind to the setting sun
Blind to the rising moon
Blind to the birds and the bees
Blind to the silv'ry dune

Blind to the whispers that followed
Blind to the stares round the halls
Blind to the pointing fingers
Blind to the iron walls

I was blind once,
but not now,
no.....
now I see

Today was my birthday

And I barely remember what I did
But I was surrounded by those I love

Today was my birthday

And I didn't get very many gifts
But what I got was just enough

Today was my birthday

And I didn't go anywhere special
But I was surrounded by those I love

**And it was just perfect enough