If I could change the world,
It’d be different that’s for sure,
I won’t tell you what I’d change,
But a couple would be made.
You wouldn’t notice it right away,
Attention would have to be paid.

Would I be the hero?
From a certain point of view.
Would I be a villain?
Perhaps, anything could be true.
I tend to sympathize,
And empathize,
With ones whose chance,
At a good life,
Is taken away.

Would I be the savior?
Don’t give me all the credit.
Would I be the enemy?
Certainly, to some.
Sometimes it’s hard to walk the middle line,
Not knowing if you’re wrong or right.
People try to say it’s just black and white,
But the truth is,
It’s more nuanced,
And scuffed,
With consequences,
So sometimes it’s better just to walk the middle line.
Occasionally, you have to stand and fight.

The hill I will die on,
Is that violence is a double-edged sword.
Does it solve anything,
Or does it only make things worse?
I can see it either way.
So much petty fighting,
All for nothing,
Worth attacking,
Or defending,
Filled with lying,
And deceiving.
So if I could change the world,
This would be something I would change.

Is it just me,
Or does it seem,
That compassion,
Is few and far between?
Decency,
A relic of the past,
Replaced with,
Tribal attacks,
On appearance,
Personality,
Demeanour,
And morality.
Such a waste of time…
Why can’t we just accept,
That everyone is different,
Instead of constantly,
Judging?
Would it be so hard,
To stop arguing,
And fix problems,
Instead of causing more?
If I could change the world…

With all the people in the world,
I see no excuse,
Why so many people feel alone,
It’s absurd!
Whether out of fear,
Or a laugh of faith in oneself,
So many people,
Experience loneliness,
Potential relationships laid to waste.
As with most things,
More nuanced than it seems,
But sometimes I can’t help but wonder,
Could things be better?

And I know,
Things are the way they are for a reason,
But my beating heart,
Wishes for things to be different.
However, with little say,
Besides on the page,
All these thoughts,
Snuffed out and remain,
Out of the light of day…

If I could change the world,
Changes would be made,
Perhaps you’d notice,
Or you’d think they’re still the same.
I can imagine a world,
Free from pain and strife.
But I know,
Without hardship, there’s no growth,
The dark days magnify the light,
Without consequence, for decisions,
Things would break.
Sometimes the hardest thing to cope with,
Is the world’s imperfections,
But in the same vein,
Is the fact,
The world is what you make.
So perhaps what needs to be changed,
Is the view we place,
On our lives,
And our strifes,
And maybe then…

We could change the world…

A wolf,
All alone,
On his lonesome,
Waiting for prey…
Wondering if love,
Is worth the pain…
A sheep stranded far away,
From its herd,
The strangest sheep you’ve ever heard.

This one thinks for itself,
Despite the stereotype,
Of the mindless zombies.
This one thinks it’s something else,
The first of her kind,
Her childish pride.
Her herd says that love is a lie,
A double-edged sword,
A failing dance,
They advise against,
Searching for true love,
A foolish gambit.
She thinks she’ll break the mold,
Be something more than what she’s told,
But her beating heart will be her demise,
As the wolf takes its prize.

The wolf steps out from the forest,
With a coy look on his face,
The sheep is surprised,
And capsized.
She’s been thrown into the waves,
Her heart betrayed her in a million ways.
With a look of interest, she approaches,
As the wolf prepares his script,
He smiles and winks, checking the boxes,
As he licks his lips.

He says,
“Haven’t you heard,
About the predators,
That roam in these woods?
What’s a thing such as yourself,
Doing this far away,
From the herd?”

She says,
“I’m not afraid of danger,
I’m here to break the mold.
You don’t seem quite as scary,
As the elders foretold.
I find the flock a burden,
Following a fool’s lead,
I am an independent,
I’ll go where my heart and mind agree.”
The wolf smiles with glee,
His prey is his guaranteed.

The sheep notices scars,
One on his ear,
And one by his heart,
She empathizes and opens her own,
Ready to hear the stories unfold.

The wolf smiles and points at the one at his ear.
“This one’s from a coyote who cowered in fear.”
He pointed next to the one by his heart.
“My mom tried to tear me apart.”
The sheep’s soul aches and groans,
Feeling empathy for a wolf unknown,
Smiling softly she asks for his name.
“Anwir,” He says and bows his head.
“Amora,” She responds, bowing along.

Time moves on,
And the pair grow close.
Their love so strong,
It could be a blaze,
And turn the woods,
To an ashen decay.
If only it was,
More than a farce,
Made up by a wolf,
To lure his prey.
So he plays his part,
His life was a stage,
Waiting for the sacred day.

The wolf offers to walk the sheep,
To a place where silence would creep.
The sheep agrees,
Calls it a date,
The wolf smiles with glee,
Sealing the sheep’s fate.

He leads her along,
A stream and a meadow,
Where they got along,
And grew closer together,
All part of his master plan,
Buying time,
To lure her to her end.

He takes her to the precipice,
With nearby mighty cliffs,
The sheep stares into,
The starry night sky.
The wolf feels split in two,
Instinct or love,
He cannot decide.
He remembers his mom,
Who tried,
To eat him to survive.

He lunges,
She thrashes,
She cries,
Her last.
“Why?”
She asks him.
He bows his head,
Before pushing her body,
Of the face of the cliff…

He sits down and gazes at the moon,
So full,
So pure,
Upon instinct, he howls,
Then it clicks,
His actions make no sense.
He flashes back to the sheep.
Smile and eyes,
That pleased him so.
He thinks of her question,
“Why?”
He starts to cry.
Love at first sight,
Ended under a starry night,
With no reason why,
Thus, is played,
The game of life…

The soldier and the poet,
Didn’t know it,
But their fates were intertwined.
Since they were younger,
Filled with vigor,
They attracted each other’s eyes.
It didn’t take long,
Till they were husband and wife,
Together, forever,
For life.

Then the bombs fell,
And the war began,
And the husband,
Had to go away.
He promised his country his life.
Though the poet pled,
It didn’t make,
A difference,
And he went either way.

The poet grabbed her pen,
As her husband trained for war,
She perfected her craft,
As her husband broke his back,
Figuratively,
With all of the attacks,
He was a part of.

She sold her poems,
Of her pain and loss,
And how she saw the world around her.
Her discontentment,
Her resentments,
And the thoughts that flew in her head.
She made a pretty penny,
But it didn’t fix the problem,
Her lover was across the sea.
But she prepared her poems,
To sing to her husband,
To ease his pained mind.

He was deployed to a war-torn city,
Paratrooper,
With parachutes,
Praying not to be shot before you hit the ground.
They had the advantage,
But the forces were stronger than they thought,
And they had heavy losses.
He lost his whole battalion.

Later he came back,
Into her loving arms,
But he wasn’t the same,
At all.
He was more quiet,
Less excited,
As he processed his pain.
He cried,
And she held him tight,
And every night,
She sang to him, lit by the moonlight.
Her favorite was one called,
“My Hero”

“Fighting amidst chaos,
Takes strength beyond belief,
And requires,
Some sacred reprieve.
I’ll hold you close,
Tell you everything’s alright,
I may not be able to change the past,
But that’s fine.
Let the memories fade away,
Don’t forget them,
But don’t let them take control of your brain.
My hero,
My lover,
My husband,
My all in all,
My everything,
My comforter.
Don’t push me away.
On your worst days,
I’ll be your hero,
Like you are mine…”

The soldier fell to tears,
Overcome by grief,
Heart filled with fears,
Wishing for reprieve.
His lover held him close,
He cried into her sleeve,
She asked him, softly,
“Won’t you tell me?”
“It’ll hurt you!” He said.
“I’ve been waiting!”
He cleared his throat,
Lifted his head,
Dried his eyes,
And mourned the dead,
He told her what,
Was in his head.
His choices filled,
With love instead,
Of pain.

She held his face,
And kissed his cheek,
And took her pen,
And wrote down,
All that he said,
Every word,
The saddest tale,
She ever heard.

But he knew,
He was safe,
In her arms,
Far away,
From bombs, and the shots,
And the blood, and the guns.
None of that,
Was here with him,
Just his wife,
His closest friend.

The soldier and the poet,
Didn’t know it,
But their fates were intertwined…

When you’re a beggar,
You take what you can get,
Even if it’s moldy,
Corrosive,
Acidic,
Or rotten,
You take it.
Cause you don’t know,
When your next meal is,
Could be a week,
Or a month,
You just pray that this slop,
Holds you over.

When you’re a beggar,
You can waltz around the town,
Find a place to settle down,
With your broken tin can.
You sit on the corners of the blocks,
Trying your hardest to cause,
Someone to notice your cause.
You’ll find,
People spend a lot of time,
In their own minds,
Meanwhile, you’re starving,
And running out of time.
When you’re a beggar,
And someone reaches out their hand,
You take it,
Even if they throw you to the ground,
You take it.
At least they paid attention,
Even with their misguided intentions,
All you wanted was attention,
So you take it.

When you’re a beggar,
And you see strangers in love,
You wonder,
How that feels,
And if,
Someone,
Could love someone like you.
You walk,
With your fragile shoes,
To the park,
Imagining the blues,
As the sun,
Fades away to many hues.
And you sit,
Underneath your bench,
Your friend,
And you wonder why,
This is your life.
The birds,
Sing their songs to cheer you up,
And at night the crickets do the same,
They just want to see your smile.

When you’re a beggar,
You know people can lie,
And they do it all the time,
To your face,
Or behind,
Your back.
Everyone hides their true intentions,
Behind a mask.

When you’re a beggar,
You’re not the best judge of character,
Your desperation blinds your sight.
Once you’re noticed,
By a person,
You grab on,
And don’t let go.
They may ignore you,
Defame you,
Bully you,
Torture you,
But you stay loyal.
You don’t want to be the villain of the story,
To the person who noticed you were there,
So you stay by their side,
Even when they don’t deserve your care.
How their words can sting.

When you’re a beggar,
Living in your cardboard box,
Inside you’ll bubble,
Where you’d like to remain,
Untouched.
But your body,
Fights against you,
Knowing,
You need someone,
To notice,
That you’re suffering.
You fight every morn,
A battle filled with scorn,
Mostly toward,
Yourself.

When you’re a beggar,
You know you’re at the bottom,
Never stopping,
Your plummet,
To the cold, hard ground.
You pray that someone sees you,
And will reach out their hand to catch you,
Yet you keep falling faster,
With no end in sight.
It’s hard to keep the guise up,
That you are doing fine, but,
You play,
Your role,
Cause life’s a stage.
When you’re a beggar,
Sometimes you just feel down,
You don’t know how,
To stop it,
So you wait.
You know,
Sometimes, it’s okay,
To cry,
So you wait,
And let it out.
Yet others,
Seem determined,
To break you down,
They see you’re broken,
So why not break you more?
I get sick and tired of,
People telling others,
How to live,
Like they know what they’re doing,
They’re lying.
Life can be pulled out from under you,
Just like a carpet,
No one’s a pro at living life,
We just take it a day at a time.

When you’re a beggar,
Sometimes you wonder,
If your problems are noticeable,
Or not.
Then someone,
Walks to your cardboard home,
Takes your hand,
Pulls you up,
Cleans your face,
And gives you twenty bucks.
“I saw you looked sad.
I’m new to the neighborhood,
And I wanted you to know that,
I see you,
And I’m here.
Here’s another,
Twenty dollars.
Actually,
You know what?
Come with me,
Let’s go out to eat,
On me.”
It’s that the best feeling?
Yet, like the setting sun,
And the passage of time,
You blink once,
And they’re gone.
No one knows,
How it feels to be,
On the bottom,
With no ladder to climb up.
With that forty dollars,
And your stomach filled,
You decide, tonight,
To not give up.
Sometimes, I feel like a beggar,
Screaming, taunting,
For fleeting love.
So I’m waiting,
For life to work itself out
People have their goals and desires,
Would you like to know mine?
Contentment.

When you’re a beggar,
You know the greatest treasure,
That’s getting rarer,
Is simply a loyal friend…

The voice that’s rarely heard,
Not outspoken,
Or outgoing enough.
The one who watches the clock,
To see the seconds turn to minutes,
To hours, to days,
Before you know it a year’s gone by.

I have a few things to get off my chest,
Perhaps it would be best.

There are people whose voice is loud,
You can tell them out of the crowd.
Some commanding, others obnoxious,
Others are demanding, and some are boisterous.
I never understood the appeal.
But if one thing is clear,
It’s that they’re confident,
For better or worse,
I just hope they aren’t full of themselves.
As per most things,
Advantageous in moderation.
Too much noise can drive one insane.
But there are highlights too,
Most leaders tend to be loud,
And I think they should.

Then there are people like me,
Quiet, but not dead silent.
Some call us mysteries,
Others find an opportunity to batter someone,
Who they know won’t talk back.
The quiet ones can be seen as arrogant,
Some think we say we’re better in every way,
Far from the truth.
Most of the time when I’m quiet,
It’s because I have nothing to say.
Or I have but I don’t think it’s important.
Don’t understand,
How some say whatever crosses their minds.
Mine bounces off the walls,
Filled with dashing, flashing thoughts.
“Are they judging me?”
“Do they even care at all?”
“What are they thinking about?”
“Am I making a fool of myself?”
“Can I connect with anyone else?”
These thoughts and more,
Rattle on despite no encore.

Apathy’s a dangerous thing,
Not caring or feeling anything.
Sometimes that’s why I don’t speak.
Wandering,
In endless wondering…
Wanderlust,
But where to go?

While most, state their opinions aloud.
I don’t.
Why risk the chance of mockery,
If you don’t have to?
People can be cruel,
Crueler than they realize,
At the time.
I keep my opinions in my head,
Where they fit best.

Sometimes I wonder:
Do people think about what they say,
Before they say it?
Sometimes it feels like,
They just preach what’s on their mind,
Without a thought behind their eyes.
They want to be seen,
To shine,
They want to be heard,
In the Broadway spotlights.
And those two desires,
Trump mostly everything else,
And add fuel to their fire,
Causing them to burn even brighter.

I take my thoughts,
To the page,
Where it’s quiet,
And all my thoughts can flow freely,
Without any pesky blockages.
How freeing,
Yet, how fleeting.

I’ve said what I wanted to say.
Shouted as loud as I could,
Through the noisy maelstrom.
I hope you heard,
What this silent voice had,
Bouncing in his brain…

Four distinct seasons,
Each with their own beauty,
Ambiance, weather, and color,
All for us to enjoy.

I must admit,
Winter’s my favorite.
I like feeling cold,
Not freezing cold,
But cold enough so that when you encompass yourself with blankets,
You feel the comforting warmth of home.
I love the look of the planet,
Underneath a blanket of snow,
The smoothness of the white,
Prettier at night.
The snow as it falls,
Gorgeous as well,
Everywhere you look,
A painting could be painted,
And the beauty would be upheld.
Snowmen on the lawns,
The festive season,
What’s not to love?
Hot chocolate by a fire,
Tales of reindeer flying high in the sky,
All these reasons are why,
Winter’s my favorite.

Followed close behind in both timing and rank,
Springtime.
The weather looks nicer,
The flowers bloom once more,
The rain may seem inconvenient,
But it’s something to be thankful for.
The pitter-patter on my window at night,
Makes me feel,
For a moment,
That everything’s alright.
Don’t forget the flowers,
Of many shades of colors,
How I look forward,
To when the Indian Paintbrushes grow.
Sunflowers,
Irises,
Roses,
Daisies,
And all the others,
Makes the season more special,
Nature’s a wondrous thing.

Now comes the one I least adore,
But still, I know,
It has its strengths.
Summertime,
Is my least favorite.
I’ve never liked the heat,
Especially when it exceeds a hundred degrees,
That’s a bit excessive to me.
It’s the time,
To hit the beach,
To be at peace,
I can practically hear the waves.
Vacations typically wait till this time of year.
Fireworks,
In America,
The booms,
Something to behold.
The weather,
While not ideal for me,
Is still wondrous to see.
Maybe in my later years,
I’ll appreciate the beauty of summer.

Last but not least,
Fall or autumn is third on the list.
Things cool down,
Leaves fall down,
From their trees.
Reds,
Oranges,
Yellows,
And browns,
Litter the grown,
Entrancing the eyes.
They’re something to see,
But not worth to speed.
The crunch beneath your feet,
The air blows deep through the trees.
Halloween,
And the Thanksgiving feast.
Bliss at the finest degree.



The Earth isn’t the only thing,
That goes through seasons,
Life does the same.
Some seasons are dark,
Without a light in sight,
But it’s there,
It’s always there.
Other seasons a filled with joy,
Take those in,
Enjoy the moment,
Because for better or worse,
Like the seasons of the Earth,
It always comes to pass.

To those who complain about the mundane,
It’s just your paradigm changing your fate.
I hope you realize before it’s too late,
That being miserable isn’t a fun game.

Don’t you understand that the mundane,
Will be most of your existence,
Not every day,
Is filled with endless enjoyment and stimulus.
Some days are just meh,
That’s how the game is played.
It’s such a waste of your breath,
To complain.

“I’m tired!”
So am I.
Of listening to your endless whining,
About how today’s the worst day of your life.
You’ll survive.
I swear,
You’ll be fine.
Your complaining is so degrading,
And depriving me of life.

“I don’t want to be here!”
Neither do I.
I don’t want to listen to you speak one more time.
To hear another ungrateful leave your mind.
Do you not realize how lucky you are to be alive?
Breathe, take it in,
Just don’t make me sit through it again.

“I’m bored!”
That’s good!
You’ll learn that sometimes things aren’t always as interesting,
As you think they should.
Why does the world have to entertain you?
Why can’t you just be satisfied?
Why must you spiel your discontentment?
I’ve found that can lead to resentment…

Don’t you see that the mundane,
Can be beautiful in its own way?
Those days where you have no plans,
Whatever happens happens,
And that’s okay.
The simple days,
Where things don’t feel so complicated,
Or frustrating,
Yet you find a way to keep complaining!

It makes me feel like I’m going crazy!
If you can’t beat them, join them.
But if I did,
I would go against the theme of this poem.
Complaining is such a waste of words,
And time.
Is it worth it,
To waste it,
On that?
I’d say that it isn’t.

Count your blessings.
If you can’t think of anything,
Then you better think harder.
There’s always something,
That anyone can be thankful for.
It’s feels a lot more gratifying,
Than just incessant complaining.
I’ve got my mom and my dad,
The ones who make sure my head’s ******* on just right,
Who keep me in the fight.

Don’t you ever get tired,
Of saying the same old things?
Of complaining,
About what everyone already thinks?
Are you that unoriginal,
Uninspired, and bland,
That you can’t see the beauty,
In your hands?

I hope you get a good night’s sleep,
You’ll need it,
When you find that tomorrow’s just today,
With a different name.
And I know,
You’ll complain again,
To your friends,
And they’ll do the same.
I hope when you’re older,
You’ll see,
That this life is what you make it.
No one said it was easy,
So we have to keep pushing through it.
Your complaining adds nothing,
But fuel to the fire,
If only you could see it,
If you weren’t blinded by your ire.

To those who complain about the mundane,
I know that some days,
May be filled with hate,
Or pain,
But it’s not a good aim,
To wish your life away.