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Save MeBecoming one with despair
A certain kind of feeling
Darkness shrouds, I'm reeling
Lost, forgotten, broken
Emotions pouring out
Words always said, never spoken
Wishing I could shout
Minds are closed, ears are too
Sight is fading
No one has a clue
Now I am jaded
Falling to my doom
Will someone save me
From this begotten tomb
Someone set me free
Save me from my doom
A Taste for TextA book is but a sweet escape
To pick you off your feet
And when it starts to pull you in
You're in for such a treat
For in the pages of a book
The world becomes a new
And anything that happens
May be happening to you
Anything is possible
The plot with twist and turn
In the end, you'll find your way
There's so much more to learn
For in-between the text
We all may find ourselves
And every hero or villain
Not merely descriptions on shelves
But a reflection of the good and bad we bury in ourselves
And when one is defeated
The other will prevail
But who will win the influence
He is not decided in the tale.
But within the heart, within the text
The words that touch us most
Will always lead us to hold on
To pick our favorite host.
The Written WordThe written word is wondrous in it's prime
The glory of the ages past abound
For ink and paper forming wit and rhyme
To spring from open lips as soulful sound
An art perfected in the days of yore
Blank canvas soon adorned in blackest ink
A siren song that sings of those before
As deep into the realms of lore you sink
When man and woman first began to write
Their wisdom was preserved for us to know
As changing, yet unchanging as the night
The echoes of the past forever show
But to the pen a blade cannot compare
As instrument of chaos and despair
Romance in MetaphorAs we sat in silence, child small,
we made shadow puppets on the wall;
and with our right hands, fingers arched,
good lord! We made a heart.
But as soon as our fingers touched,
as though preconceived, all at once,
our hands gave a jerking start;
and we each tore it half apart.
So many times it's come undone
and I've fought for love and hardly won,
but it's never, ever been much fun,
at least not half as much as breaking fingers
on a wall,
sitting in a silent hallway,
Icarus"Don't fly too near the sun," I said
Your wings were created only, after all
Bird-feathers, wax and wood, a father's fancy,
For the saving of his only child
"Don't fly too near the sun."
Your teeth flashed fierce in your face
And, smiling, you struck away my fears
Fly-like, invincible against your boasting youth
Nothing could harm you then - no words
Could press home the horror that I feared.
I saw you, in my mind's eye, plummet down -
A discarded doll, you broke upon the rocks
Or, seabird-like and knifing through the waves
You split the sea, your breath stolen
By the wine-dark ocean whose strong arms
Enfolded you - a cold and salt-rimed corpse
But you, my starlight child, my bronze-and-copper boy
Who braved the heat, and, laughing,
Bared your breast to the flames,
When you fell, you burned.
Its not needed
What is not felt
Is not understood
No one is 'me'
So no one will know
What even I cannot fully
How it frees
Separates me from the world
Yet I'm bound
Please Define Normal For MeThe teacher stands
before the class,
a ruler in one hand.
She taps the board
and pulls out a marker,
writing in black ink
define normal for me."
Not a sound.
Not a peep.
All the students do is stare,
glassy eyed and hardly there.
Once again she taps the board.
Class is still in session."
blink their eyes.
They look again at the board.
She writes her question down.
"Please define 'normal' for me."
No one dares to raise a hand,
but at least they are awake.
The timid girl, who sits in the back,
her hair dyed brightly purple and green,
barely dares to raise a hand.
"Ma'am, do you mean,
from the dictionary?"
The teachers smiles,
looks at the class.
"No, I don't,
I mean to ask,
what does normal
in terms of people's tastes.
What is a normal person,
It's plain to see,
in the faces of the "popular"
what they'd like to say.
But no one wants to offend
this amazing teacher,
I paint with a pen.I paint with a pen, why is that so absurd?
That instead of acrylics I draw with the word.
The desk is my easel, my colours are few,
For this line of work I need only two.
I think of the rainbow as a tad O.T.T,
Good old black and white are the colours for me.
I cannot imagine how we'd live without text!
Without written instruction, what would we do next?
Mobile phones are pointless, shove the books in the bin,
telepathyI think if we could read minds
the world wouldn't be different
we would just find different ways of shutting
evolve walls inside our skulls that would
come crashing down like blast doors and
the forests wouldn't uproot themselves
the landscape wouldn't change
the ocean would continue to eat at the shore
it would all be very boring
or maybe it wouldn't
perhaps the people would become the
hills and valleys and places would
have their own memories
the maps would read
"here is where John got drunk last night"
"here is where Sasha had her first thought"
"here there be dragons"
art wouldn't be interpreted
it would be shared
and when two lovers felt each other for the
it would be like
a volcano erupting
an extinction-level event
the first shot in a war
the discovery of electricity
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