I will gather all the flowers in the world
And lay them before your feet
I will unhook every shining ball of fire
Just for you to keep
I will willingly choke on honeyed juices
Til all my words sound sweet
I will drink up all the salty ocean water
So that there is none left for you to weep
I will use my mouth like an instrument
To teach you that love has a beat
No matter how unsteady it may be

But all that can't compensate for all this because

I will trash and thrash around your lovely heart
I will punch holes into walls when I feel like we're world's apart
I will drown myself in ***** when everything starts to feel like an attacking dart
I will smash mirrors, make my skin bleed and my veins part
Because
I
am
only
good
at
the
start

The man who tries to prove a point is unsure of how sharp it is.
The man who comes to war with blunt weapons is confident in his own strength.

The man who comes with armor falls heavy into his own grave.
The man who comes naked is sure he will return unscathed.

But, not every warrior is the same;
And, no war can be fought in the shadow of divine aim.

To be what they want
Is to win a battle
To be who you are
Is to win a war

I don't really know
Where home is
Right now
I'm still searching for a place
To call one
I'm still looking for somebody
To be one
I don't really know
Where home is
But I am determined
To find out.

When Blake wrote his words
And colored them into image
Do you think he knew
That hundreds of years later
We would still be reading them
Do you think he knew
Centuries forward
We would still be singing his songs of innocence
And experience
I wonder
If our curiousity about his work
Pleases him
Or if maybe
He rolls in his grave
Sick of hearing his own art
On replay
Maybe he is laughing
Because we are trying
Too hard
Over-analyzing
Too much
I wonder
If he ever imagined
His poetry would live on for so long
Still continue breathe
Long after he stopped
I wonder
If he knew
It would remain alive
Even when he was not
I wonder
If any of the greats
Knew just how great they really were

Did Shakespeare understand
The potential in his pen
In his ability
To turn blood into ink
Did he know
How many decades could live
In just one short sonnet
And that one single story
Could become universal
Maybe he too
Is puzzled by our wondering
Maybe he didn't think
As much as we do
Maybe
He just did
Without thought
I often question
If we question too much
If we twist simple into complex
Make things more complicated
Than needed
All too often

If every writer
Who wrote our stories
Knew how much
We would become them
I wonder
If they would have written them
In the first place

I would like to think
They would
That they knew
Of the beauty
In challenge
That they wrote
With reader in mind
And the hope
That you
Will find it.

Be cautious
Of the love you give out
And how much of yourself
You give away

There will always be someone
Who takes too much.