Before I was born,
God looked down at my unfinished fate,
And he declared,
"We shall make him a poet, but he will learn to be,
And not be gifted with."

Well God gifted me,
And sent me down to earth,
In the fall, a season marked by death!
How ironic I was born,
In the month of earth's last breath.

As a young child I played happily,
As the angels of dilemma watched over me,
And every so often sent a tragedy.
That I'd have to foster and live with,
Until I returned to God my poetic gift.

T'was not a spirit,
T'was not a ghost.
There is no specter,
Which haunts my soul.
In a joyous world,
I and I alone,
Am the inspiration,
For each sad poem.

I sit at my chair
For hours on end
Staring at the blank paper

The story is at the tips of my fingers
The characters chatter in my mind, ready to take the stage
But to my horror

My words are gone and only the silence remains

Fantasy, the kind you dream,
_.
In a world where all comes true,
_.
Just like a story book,
_.
Floating, flying, hovering,
_.
Everything is good,
_.

we write our stories with unsteady hands,
our fingers stained in ink from all the errors,
a silent witness to our hopes and terrors,
it will remember when the world forgets.

and if we make it through to tell the tale,
our voice may linger, but the words will perish,
so we disclose all of our hopes and terrors,
be it in darkness or the light of day.

anonymous or public, foes or friends,
bound, bruised and battling your inner devils,
you'll see yourselves in our hopes and terrors,
preserved in stories, written by our hands.

You!?.*

WanT
        o         P
                   a   My
                   i                                          Well two bad,
                   n   Portrait                         I'm not real,
                   t                                           I am a Chemical
                                                        ­                    a
                                           ­                                 o        Fee(l) you seem
                                                            ­                t         To like to Get
                                                             ­               i                           o  
                                                                ­            c                          ThoUght
                  ­                                                                 ­                            p
im nobody who is you im a piece of glass in the ocean an unexpected regret you didnt want but now you have im the kind of thing you get in a goodie bag from a party you didnt want to go to but you still did an embodiment of every reason you doubt yourself on a daily basses im the one whom sits behind the screen not watching but watchin you thats the scary part of me that you arent quite ready to leave because who will watch you if im gone

Love will write poems,
Long cold fall, poet days.
Remember publisher?
Find things, turn music,
Work years, empty morning, keep winter Christmas light(s).
Poets' song told,
Tonight, bed black walk(s) poetry.
Sea winds missing,
Men hurt, dark hold, coming hand(s).
Someday stopped walking, "Friends mind Mexico,"
Listen, staring, wonder, wait.
Silent waves, "Guess sad friend," asked Boy,
"Sand Lake."
"Save ocean sing?"
"Sing, slip, wishing diamonds shine! Silver Green tells, "Care   forever, pretty face."
Alas wind fingers,
Salty message!
Memories spite,
"Learn, Angel, young children fade."

Single sentences happen.