If you're lonely,
Start greeting strangers on the street,
A funny thing starts to happen,
When you stop to say 'Hello!'

If you're looking for a real remedy,
So you can feel real happy,
Always remember to smile,
Wherever you find yourself.

I'd bet a five dollar bill,
Strictly on your life filling up,
After you begin to say hey,
Whether it's a passerby, or a new friend.

Up to the trees I go,
Further north where fresh water flows.
Travel preparations with my heart aching,
Home is where I’m free,
Left alone just to be.
Not in this gloomy place,
Not within this heat wave.
Like a pioneer,
I pack my bags,
Leaving behind the places I know,
In search of the places,
Where I’ll grow.

You fill me up,
You break me down.
Then scatter the broken pieces of my body all around,
A grim load of seed,
From which sprouts a wicker tree.

You seek foreclosure,
You'll find none from me.
I will be an angry spirit,
Lying amongst the wicker trees.

You want to know the poet?
You want to know the man?
You can call him Hardison,
He's going for the grand throne,
In that hall of fame.
There's nothing that will halt him,
Till his name's carved in the sky.

How do I know God listens,
I don't.
He could,
He couldn't.
But I'd guess he does,
Because when I wished not to suffer it was,
And whence I wished for love it was,
But not without my hand in work,
Tilling God's land.

Today is better,
Than these days have been,
No longer cloudy minded.
I know I'm still hanging on to love,
I don't know if you are,
But thank you.
For speaking to me today,
I need you more than even I knew,
But I think I can come to terms,
With being good friends.

Somebody tell the sky,
That it doesn’t have to be gray,
If it doesn’t want to anyways.

It’s awfully hard,
To rain on someone’s parade,
If the sun is shining through you.

Even when your curtain is closing,
That’s no reason for you,
To not give the best finale you can.

Good morning USA,
How joyous am I,
To be waking in this country,
Of all the days,
The 4th of July.

As the red winged Robins pass me by,
I stare out at a spot of sunshine,
Across the hall.
Sumer time seems to fall,
With no care for my voice at all.

Soon I know these times will go,
Like our young country,
We grow out of touch.
It becomes hard to reach,
A point of sound sanity.

These late nights are all we've got,
Carnival games, shirt stains,
Twelve dollar fries!
Staring deep into your eyes,
We find silence in their cries.

Clouds of smoke wander around the house,
We keep the grill out of the way,
But peckish little hands happen to stray,
Such delicious food, so many trays!

Happy freedom day.

It started when I was seven,
Wasn't much of a fan of books.
Ignoring everything in class,
Lucky for me,
My teacher refused to call it a lost cause.
She got me reading,
Now I'm here.

Gravedigger, gravedigger,
Why do you spend you evenings,
Dredging in the yard?

Gravedigger, gravedigger,
Does this break your heart,
That nobody else wanted to do the ***** work,
So they left you to shovel through the mud?

Bonjour Gray Man,
What is on the menu for breakfast today?
A black coffee and a plate of blueberry jam,
On plain white bread.
A blueberry, for the blue in you,
Coffee and bread, because you find it tasty.
Gray Man of Paris,
What's here that you fancy?
What led you to leave to shaded land,
Of pencil-paper men?
Was it a secret love of bright colors,
That you look so dreary against?
Well salut Gray Man,
Enjoy breakfast in the colored land.

This walls all talk,
These halls tell stories,
But they aren't legends yet,
They can't be, she isn't gone.

These walls talk too much!
These halls tell lies!
I hate all these pictures,
Memories stolen away from me!

These walls talk,
These halls are story tellers,
If I listen for long enough,
Will they bring her back?

These walls talk dispairingly,
These halls tell somber stories,
I passed another man walking,
Is he a loner such as I?

These walls talk of her loveliness,
These halls tell her story,
I listen to their songs,
And bathe in her memory.

I'm in the ocean,
I'm in the land.
For I reside in the feeble mind of man,
And all it takes for me to spread,
Is the fingers curling in a man's hand.
Who am I?

Sometimes poems are rough,
When you're writing when life is tough.
Often just writing isn't enough,
You have to take your feelings, make them feel pretty.
Even though most of what I'm feeling,
Is pretty gritty.
Fitting.
Someday people are gonna have to wake up,
And realize,
****'s tough, life is rough, it's already bad and I just woke up. ****.

I think I'm growing up,
I don't need the same things a child does,

But I need love,
I need your love.

You give me air to breathe,
Warm arms to melt into,

You give me a reason to be,
Let's keep being.

A little boy plays by the river,
Slips on wet rock by the stream,
He scrapes his knee.

He cries from the pain,
But his buddies laugh it away.
And he becomes a man,
Because grow men don't cry, right?

Scrapbook Poem #140

Run river, run wide,
Don't let them **** you, be free,
Run river, run long.

Sleep with the lights off,
Warm under sheets.
Wake to the morning sun,
And the promise of you and me.
New year's day,
New year's eve.
Can't keep away from the new year,
And the new you, the new me.
Piano, sparkling anything,
Diamond ear rings.
There is no where I'd rather be,
Than holding you.
Be the last memory of this year,
And the first of the next?

February 14th 2025,
The yearly anniversary of he who failed to fall,
To the crushing hand of prosecution.
The day, a symbol of love,
Congratulations Mr. Douglass,
That's what we got.
Happy birthday to a spirit of liberty,
And cheers to equal freedoms.

Heartbreak is an ugly thing,
A ripped up feeling of pain.
In true heartbreak,
There is no beauty,
So if you find some it was but simple distaste.
Heartbreak is a burning fire,
A bullet hole in the chest of your love,
Left by your lover, with blood on their glove.

I just wanted you to know,
You're not alone,
And I couldn't say it to your face,
Because I was scared.

You're not the first person out of you and me,
To try and dive (die),
And make it to a better side.

Hello Poets,

I've noticed the 300 poet poem gaining some traction again,
And with all the new writers joining recently,
It shouldn't be hard to make stick.

But there'll still need be more,
When everyone on here has joined,
So I ask of you one thing,
Bring out all your artists wherever they may hide,
And lets make dream reality.

Her skin is wrapped in Henna,
Beautiful brown ink,
Sketches cover her thighs.

Little golden vines wrap around her fingers,
Intertwined with the bare white of mine,
She's a work of art, such a beautiful painting,
I trace each line of the brush.

The truth is,
There's no elite thinker's society,
We're all elite in our own respect.
We evolved from bent over forms,
Working for raw survival.
But as we grew, some of us split away,
Faded from simple survival,
Growing a taste for art.
So were born the sculptors,
The painters, and the poets.
Clever as they were,
The old artists.
They formed a secret society,
For elite thinkers to survive.

Can you hold my hand so I don't fall?
Even though happiness pays me,
Like she owes me debt,
Sadness still comes a'knocking,
Looking for little bills and floor pennies.
Because I didn't put money,
In his street jam cup.
Though he'd just buy bottles of melancholy with it.

Billy Joel and Family Guy,
I'm an American walking by.
My button shirts are pressed,
Lined up in a row.
What a good place,
This home I know.

I like to say,
I'm an esteemed poet,
A vibrant fan of literature.
I'm an avid writer,
I recite some too.
But the first time I heard "The Raven,"
Was on the Simpsons.

They tell one lie,
They speak one truth.
'It's easy to heal,
But you'll remember all your scars.'

The latter of the two, a truth.
Though that which precedes,
Lies through it's teeth.
Fangs of darkness and deceit,
Designed to forge a man with a black heart.
If not for the comfort of the summer sea,
I too would've succumbed to the gray of this city.
Morphed from a young and happy form,
To a soulless monster,
'****-Malum.'

Don't visit the troll's cave,
And expect the troll to have changed.

Keep in mind you're lucky,
That I let you lie and rot,
And didn't just slay you on the spot.

You like thought puzzles?
Well consider this,

A boy and a girl
Board a train
Desperate to escape the rain
And bump into each other
Due to one hour of travel
Because of one hour of time
A man and a woman walk out

How do I beat writers block?
How do I scale a wall,
Google won't give me answers at all.

How do I fix a broken star?
How do I mend a shattered dream,
Is the answer hidden in the stream?

Art is born in a poets hand,
Though, like the fragile flower it is,
Art always crumbles to dust.

It drags the poet with it too,
For deep in their heart it grows its roots.
So when it fades, wrapping tight around their sickly heart,
The beating stops and they drop.

I don’t think it’s from the heart anymore,
Writing or love or anything.
Diagnosed with greatest of all time syndrome,
But it’s not from me,
Too much winning makes people expect way more,
Till I’m panting begging for the mercy of the floor.
Real writing doesn’t sell,
But I can’t write vague ideas and modern morals forever.
Bring me back,
Because I’m on the brink,
Of being somebody out of touch,
Either your hero,
Or somebody you don’t give a second look.

People ask how scientists know it’s truly fall,
And people tell them about the Fall equinox.
That we know it’s Fall when the sun dips below the horizon,
On both halves of the globe.
That the coming of fall is when the people in the southern side of the earth,
Have spring.

That is how science knows it’s fall,
But how do we know the date, the hour?
I could tell you when fall is here,
But it won't be down to the minute.
I know fall has come when the winds turn cold,
And the leaves of the oak trees are bleeding.
When the streets are empty of the children playing,
When I sit on a fallen birch log on the beach,
Staring at the water, but I’m shivering in a flannel,
And the water is frozen over.
When i come home and the tea kettle is going,
But all the summer lemon tea is put away.
Little changes in these things, they will lead me astray.

The coming of fall.

That’s how I know the fall is coming,
Not by watching the hours of my days.
Not based on when the sun rises in Iran,
But by the feel of the winds,
But by the blood of the leaves.
And by the tears that have fallen,
On these empty streets.

The Fall Of Twenty-Twenty Four.

I'll show you how the world burns,

It comes in simply steps,

An effigy,
An idea to hold on to,
A sacred symbol,

A **** good convincer.

How to find inspiration?
Google says;
-Try new routines.
-Expose yourself to new environments.
-Start engaging in activities to stimulate your brain.
(EA, Connecting with people, Connecting with nature, Brain Teasers Magazine 1937.)

I say,
Google is a robot.
Trying it’s best to understand,
Lofty human ideals,
When it was programmed to be down to earth.
The real secret sauce of poetry,
Journaling, noveling, shortstorying,
Is living.
I like new books,
Under new skies,
Trying to adapt to a new life.
You may like storm clouds rolling over mountain tops,
Or a crowded dance floor playing Spanish house music,
Neil likes punk rock.
When you’re out for inspiration,
The best place to go,
Is a place you know,
Or a place you’ve never been.

I am a dead tree,
Hallowed branches waving in solemnity.
Wind whispering through my skeleton,
They tell lies to the young sprouts of the forests.
Convince them that not only is life a foolish game,
It's a foolish game they're losing.
An old soul, I stood tall watching poets come,
Then I began to wilt as I watched poets go.
The eyes that once admired my growth,
Turned to fingerprints and memory.
My bark is riddled with stories,
All the lovers that made a promise on my skin,
Leaving the now grim scars of foreshadowing.
I am a dead tree,
Hallowed branches waving in solemnity.

I am from the sea, the salty spray of the Atlantic.
I am born of the trees and stars, of cold winds and breezy nights.
I am a son of the red sand hills, and the lost letters to neverland.
I am the making of love and pain, of lost will and false strength.
I am the lord of memories of longing and heartbreak.

I am born of an island of stone, and seas of stories.
I am a child of hatred and spite.
I am King of a long-lost land.
I am the farmer of an ancient plant.
I am from the sea, the salty spray of the Atlantic.

There's no promise of love,
I was lucky to find it.
Nothing says there will be someone there,
For you to hold or be held by,
When the storm rolls in.
A very few get to know,
Just how it feels,
To embrace your lover.
Carefully placing your hand on their face,
Love isn't promised,
Possibly it may never come,
So I am lucky to have it now.

I am no fool,
Not a person to by played with,
You cannot trick me,
Expecting to get away with it.

But if you dare to do,
I will dare to challenge you,
I prefer a battle of wits,
To see which of us wins the day.

You're scared of the dark,
Don't worry, I am too.
But you can have my nightlight,
If you can sleep sound with it.

The world eludes you,
You wonder why it carries you with a crooked hand.
And you wish it would just put you down,
But if you want to know the sky,
I can lift you up straight and strong.

You're terrified of yourself,
Each night darker and darker.
But I'll hold you tight,
And make sure you don't slip down.
Because if you lay in the ground,
You'll never see the stars.

I can't believe I'm missing you,
After all the things you put me through.
Sleepless nights making sure you were alright,
Dreary days ensuring you were eating okay.
You never wanted to be seen in public,
So we never went on dates.
All the ways you would curse yourself,
All the compliments you gave me, that felt like insults in disguise.
When I got in trouble for the times I'd meet up with you 9th period,
And I had to talk to that counselor that I didn't like.
The way his office was so blank,
It made me uncomfortable.
The days I had to walk by the street,
Because you liked drifting too close the speeding cars.
After all the things you put me through,
I can't believe I'm missing you.

I like music?
Writing is good too.
But music is the best,
I like listening to the records,
As they spin.
Art is nice too,
I like to paint.

My sweet treat of choice,
Was a nice ice coffee.

But now nothing compares,
To the Cup o' Joe shade of your hair,
And the sugary taste of your lipstick.

It doesn't matter what I say,
You won't read it anyways.
But you don't hurt me,
You make me happy.
What makes me unhappy isn't you,
It's when you push me away,
Please stop icing me out.

Many don't know the moral of Vincent Van Gogh.
We as artists don't mind the pain,
Of cutting off an ear.
We only notice how it hurts,
When our gift is rejected.

There's all to win,
When giving your all,
Yet when giving your all,
There's a great chance you fall.
Pride wasn't made a sin, of itself.
It was deemed evil,
When we witnessed the destruction,
From a broken sense of pride.

We give as much as we can,
I do as much as I can,
A perfect person.
After preaching against it I know she was right,
I am only a hypocrite,
Still searching for that perfection,
Has left me to become only a suggestion.