Sometimes it's good
To be sad.
To not chase away,
But embrace the heaviness
That weighs down your

Heart and feet.

Sometimes it's good
To be sad.
To rest your head in a
Warm lap, allowing tears to flow,
And loving fingers to

Find them.

To write food in the stomach
Of every hungry child.

To spell war as peace,
Metaphorize flowers into the barrel

Of every gun on Earth.
The poet has responsibilities

Beyond those of mothers,
Of kings and presidents.

I refuse to give up hope;  
This could be a poem world.

Come on, write your worst piece
Of literature.

Even misprints may give other
Meanings to a word,

Write me a green sky, blue dirt,
Trees the colour of air.

Sometimes the best poets
Have the least to say,

So keep writing, write until your
Fingers fall asleep.

Write until you havent slept
For weeks in search of that word,

That one right word,
Then rest on a notebook pillow

And dream the world right.
Write the world right.

There is no such thing as
Wasted poetry.

Mountain, lean on me.
Let me comfort you,
Cry your creeks onto
My shoulder.

Oak tree; weeping willow
At heart. Here,
Find shelter from the rain
Beneath me.

Girl, grow strong enough
To carry the weight of
Your beauty.
Concrete cross; boulder burden

Of features and curves beheld
In craving by wide-eyed men.
A curse at times, to have
Your golden soul shine through

To the outside of your being.
Until then, lean on me.
Let me comfort you.
Cry your every drop of fatigue

Onto my shoulder.
Find shelter beneath me.
I can hide the sun from your eyes.
See: Love is sizeless.

I hear you saying
The games that they're playing
Are meant for the
Talented few.

But the power invested
In all of the best, is
The same one that rests
Within you.

If there were thousands of galaxies between us
I would still traverse each one *searching