A feeling of acceptance.  
Within these  four white walls.
Within this house.
Within this open air prison.
Rebellious.
Bound by night and day.
A slave of time.
Destined to follow the rules of nature.
Following the rules of space.
Rules that you can't break.
I abide against my will.
Rebellious.
Within the parameters of this atmosphere.
Within this solar system.
Within space and the infinite possibilities of what lies beyond.
Within infinity itself.
Am I, unimaginably small and
insignificant on a cosmic scale.
Yet within these white walls
I am rebellious.

Aware of every string vibrating
as the violin plays a melody
resonating with my sorrow
the sound and sadness
dance with perfect symphony
synchronized with my heart
my soul shivers
my being captured
in these vibrating strings
the audience watches
simply observing this dance
but not a smile or sound
to be found
the audience tries not to give in
and therefor gave in
to the sad melody
sung by my soul

Steal my poems, all of them
For I care not where it goes
Spread them, claim that my words are yours
and I shall gladly witness
my thoughts being spread across the globe
Pour out my ashes
for every poem is part of my soul
Every poem
a desperate attempt to cleanse my thoughts
So spread my work
I will touch hearts where ever my feelings go
I know I am armed to the teeth
So be my arms dealer
and soon I will have the world within arms reach
Every person armed to the teeth
with stolen words they can barter,
ask questions, provide insight
that others can't see
Steal my work, please
Every poem will spark heat
Ignite and hearts beat
My children will fall free
For I am a lost tree

I am the poem
I refuse to write.

My skin has formed itself
as sedimented book pages,
quietly injecting
our unspoken metaphors
into my bloodstream
of Murakami, of Plath,
of everything that hurt too much
to even whisper to my typewriter.

I am a poet,
and I will type you
into the night sky.

Older, but not by much,
we always grated, girlfriends
too close for , both our comfort.
Older now, the pair of us,
Chinese takeaway, beer, of course,
we are used to the quirks;
the personality rubs.
The uniqueness that is ours.

Imagine wanting to say something,
Having so much to say,
But nothing will come out.
You're trapped in your own mind.
It's as if you have stage fright,
And the whole world is a stage,
And you can't speak the lines
That you've rehearsed
Over and over, countless times.

Imagine people telling you
To stop being shy, to talk,
But they don't understand
How real this fear is.

What if you say the wrong things?
What if no one likes you?
Feeling as if they think you're weird,
That they don't want to talk to you.
And it's those fears that trap the words,
Trap all the things you have to say.
It's not easy, it's terrifying.
And no one seems to get it,
This is not just shyness,
This is not antisocial,
It's anxiety, it's a phobia.
And it hurts.

take me in and
   i'll take you out,
   i'll take you away
to a far, forgotten fantasy
   away from urban complexity, insanity.
we could
dive the depths.
climb the heights.
whisper our wishes
   to the evening breeze.
sing to the beat
   of bubbling brooks.
dance to the rhythm
   of rustling leaves.
ride the road
   of the winding river.
sail forth
   into the vast velvet ocean.
drink the moon glow
   that drips thick like milk.
swallow in
   the air's forgotten freedom.
with one hand
   reach for the stars
   that shine almost as bright as you.
with the other
   hold mine.

erase and escape.
rewrite reality.
lift up that heavy heart.
fall back in love with me.

Though willing hands are always there
To feed her, dress her, and brush her hair
Disease has crept through her with stealth
Some things just can't be stopped with wealth.

The frailty was quite slow at first
She couldn't fasten her shoes at worst
But then it weakened her gentle heart
And eventually it tore her life apart.

And though she prayed with all her might
She started soon to lose her sight
She fell down often and broke her hip
And life began to fade and slip.

In time she couldn't leave her bed
And dreamed her dreams of Christ instead
For she well knew he'd suffered worse
Than her small Earthly painful curse.

Now in her mind in fear she weeps
Her life but spent in fitful sleeps
She waits in hope for His Holy hand
To lead her to the Promised Land.

©Joe Wilson - She waits in hope...2014