Let the artist's thought embrace the night,
As he scribble it all till dawn;
For words are enough to end a fight.

Bagged with pens and clearest sight,
He wandered the world alone;
Let the artist's thought embrace the night.

Inspired by the beauty of colors and light,
He described the majestic throne;
For words are enough to end a fight.

To give everyone what is just and right,
He painted it with for hone;
Let the artist's thought embrace the night.

Aiming to share a peaceful flight,
He uttered in the loudest sone;
For words are enough to end a fight.

Striving for future's height,
Dreaming for a joyful tone,
Let the artist's thought embrace the night,
For words are enough to end a fight.

I pick up a pen.
                           ...or is it a gun?
and write about zen.
The world is all but one.

I pick up my pen.
                               ...or is it my gun?
I will find it soon then,
the war is all but won.

I pick up a pen.
                           ...or is it a gun?
I write about Jen and,
how war may lack fun.

Jen pick up her gun.
                                    ... it is surely not a pen.
my pen loses rhythm and so has the war
and the people who still fight all lose.
                                                                  In the end we will all lose...

Hello We haven't talked in quite some time
I know I haven't been the best Of sons
I've been traveling in The desert of my mind
And I Haven't found a drop Of life
I haven't found a drop Of you
I haven't found a drop of me
I haven't found a drop Of water
Sometimes I see flying saucers
I don't feel very sheltered
I need a mother to cover me
Its not what it means
I scratch my hand while its shaking
Writing quickly, a voice is what I'm making
Through years I finally notice that I am changing
I'm addicted to the pen

.....The brush rushes the paint, the
                        grudge    
    is ripe. Cultivate it or let it rust.
  The paint stale, the painter frail.
   Caved canvas like sails of a sailor.
  Clash of nimbuses pales the skin  
as thunder waltzes ashore the ocean,
       ballets on the sea like swans
  entwined dancing with the wind.
You'll love the voice of melody when  
                  harmony sings.
       Deep bliss drowns sins for    
      peace to glimpse the surface

              Poets — coherent,
          honest with even pens
     and odd ends. Warm hearts
               with cold hands.
      The bane engaged with pain,
               as faith fades and
          blank pages mar sanity.
                Life springs anew
From the well of thoughts flowing
                Through the pen.

Every generation
has the leaders and the followers.
The popular kids and the geeks,
the kids who get high on the streets
and the kids who get high on cloud nine.
The artists and the poets,
the skaters, the stoners,
the musicians and the actors,
and we all have the kids
who are all of the above.
We all have the kids
who are none of the above.
Times change, yes
and trends come and go
but don’t tell me that I’m exceptional
not because of what I know
but because of the children
that surround me.
Don’t tell me to speak my dreams
and release my strife in the form of rhyme
because “few others you know do it”.
Passion is limitless,
passion is ageless
and while I’m being raised
in a generation of technology
and dramatic social media,
yolo and swag, pregnant teens
and 55-hour marriages-
I’m growing up
in a generation of artists,
a generation of dreamers,
a generation of doers,
and a generation
of freethinkers.
Freethinkers whose words
drip from their tongues like honey
and stain their pages in the world
like wine.
Students who get bored
with teachers wanting them to think
in 1’s and 0’s,
fit into standards,
speak in slanders
and begin to hyperventilate
because they can’t translate
what they think.
Kids who haven’t forgotten
that breathing in binary isn’t healthy.
Apparently, those that find
enough creative destruction in life to cheat the system
are going against the greater public’s
better judgement,
feeling free to sit and glare
at those who swear that they’re normal,
but I’m not growing up with those kids.
People who sit back and cry crocodile tears
for those who don’t know
what to think of themselves,
sitting back and laughing
at those who shudder and shake
at the thought of being caught in between
different sides of their minds
that they don’t know it’s okay to have…
but I’m not growing up with those people.
I’m growing up in a
group of rebels,
a group that will one day
run the nation-
a nation of tenacious activists,
wearing their minds
more professionally than
politicians wear their suits-
and with better ideas.
Because we have voices,
we have pens,
but most important
we have ideas,
ideas that can change the world,
change the world more
than poker-faced suits
and hate commercials
and picket signs
ever could.

talking to you
is like writing with a red pen and
expecting black ink.

no matter how many times I tell myself
it's always going to be the same and
absolutely nothing has changed,
I run back to you and hope that
you will eventually
give me the metaphorical black ink
I've waited so long for.

I'm longing for
the black ink to spill out in the form of
"I miss you too, I'm sorry for everything I've put you through and I want you to come back to me"
(and that you'll actually mean it)
and I want that ink
to stain my lungs and my mind
I want that ink
to be laced into my skin as a tattoo

but unfortunately,
you can't give me that blank ink.
it's by no fault of your own;
you're just simply a red pen
and I guess these days
I'm colorblind.

I think, often. Maybe too often.
I think you're scared of me.
I think you're skeptical of the good in things.
And up until you met me, I know you've had every reason to be.

I think we're all monsters, and that humanity is history's great facade.
I think we're all scrambling to find salvation.
And I think I've found mine in pen strokes dedicated to you.

I think, I think, I think...
And with you no longer by my side, I always will think.