Hope

Hope is a wild flower, bright and colorful,

that appears in the oddest of places.

It cannot be planted where it is wanted,

for then it would not be wild.

It cannot be located,

unless you already know where it is.

Hope is the light inside us that never dies,

for when it dies, we die with it.

Soul Searcher

Our souls are pools of emotions.

They writhe because of our minds.

For our minds create false notions,

Of what we should think, but don’t.

Our instincts are chewed away by attitude,

As our hearts are filled with justification,

And our mouths unleash the words of the multitude.

How did this happen?

Where are our souls?

Are they still with us?

Nobody knows.

And what nobody knows is what nobody thinks.

For nobody thinks of what we have neglected.

For we have lost what we can’t remember.

For it is our souls that we have rejected.

Our souls must be found,

Or we must all die.

This is the price, it is only just

Where are our souls?

We must find them, we must.

Someday

I painted a picture with my tears.

It was a picture of dark clouds, rain, and thunder.

It was a picture of an ocean that had been created by the tears, sorrows, and pains of humanity.

It was a picture of my own river of life’s little torments.

My river contributed to the mighty sea, as its beaches were continually being swallowed by new troubles added to the ocean of tears.

But soon my river, which has flooded over, will turn into an insignificant stream. 

But for now, I wallow in my torturous condition hoping that someday my river can turn into a stream.

Someday, someday, someday…

Inspirationless

I sat down to write this, for it needed to come out.

Pen in hand, paper on the table.

But inspiration didn’t whisper, and it didn’t shout.

My ideas sidestepped my grasp, my frustration arose.

The game of tag entered my fingers, telling my pen things that I didn’t mean.

Needless to say, the going was slow.

Hoping for enlightenment, I tried to remain keen,

But it’s not all that easy when you’re fatigued.

Why does haze blur my mind’s eye?

Inspirationless, I ramble on and on.

But then I remembered what was capable of making me fly,

And it’s you.

Colorful

Explain to me a color,

for my eyes aren’t able to see.

Can you explain to me a color,

and what colorful means?

Blue tastes like crystals,

            red tastes like spice,

                        yellow sounds like excitement,

                                    and black paints the night.

Purple’s kinda like pink, except more sad,

            pink’s like little giggles and lacey dresses

                        turquoise is warm, tropic waters, and beautiful,

                                    and gold is a brighter yellow, only worn by kings.

There’s burgundy, maroon

            Lime, midnight blue,

                        Chartreuse, peach,

                                    Violet, and silver.

These words make colorful,

            when the colors get together and play.

                        Colorful’s the world, and all its noises,

                                    Colorful’s your mind, and all its questions.

Colorful is a feast,

            it’s tastes, sounds, and smells,

                        that mix, hug, and cooperate,

                                    to make something unique!

Can you understand,

            what colorful is?

                        Can you understand,

                                    all of these colors?

Yes, and thank you, sir,

            but can you answer me this,

                        what does the moon look like?

                                    What about the sun, my house, my mom?

What about the world?

            What about my clothes,

                        oh, and don’t forget my father,

                                    what do they look like, help me sir.

My dear, remember this,

            everything’s a color, sometimes two,

                        sometimes three, four, five, or ninety-four,

                                    but it doesn’t matter what everything else is,

as long as you know what you are.

Soul Searcher

Our souls are pools of emotions.

They writhe because of our minds.

For our minds create false notions,

Of what we should think, but don’t.

Our instincts are chewed away by attitude,

As our hearts are filled with justification,

And our mouths unleash the words of the multitude.

How did this happen?

Where are our souls?

Are they still with us?

Nobody knows.

And what nobody knows is what nobody thinks.

For nobody thinks of what we have neglected.

For we have lost what we can’t remember.

For it is our souls that we have rejected.

Our souls must be found,

Or we must all die.

This is the price, it is only just

Where are our souls?

We must find them, we must.

Stars

A star is exiled from the sky, and we make a wish as it falls on by.

When was that disabled star given the power to answer our call?

It wasn’t, so are we mocking its loss?

You don’t hear exactly what you want to, so you let out an annoyed sigh.

Does that agitated breath change the past, and what has already been said?

This isn’t possible, so are you just complaining because your selfish desires haven’t been satisfied?

We laugh as another gets hurt.

Is this a way of protecting ourselves from their pain?

Or do we simply enjoy someone else’s suffering?

You think something dirty is lowly like dirt.

Don’t you have to be able to think in order to be lowly?

Even if you don’t, why is dirt so lowly, simply because you walk on it?

We naturally think that we should be rewarded before others.

Is this nature’s way of starting wars and making sure that the earth isn’t overpopulated?

Or are we just selfish by design, wouldn’t that make us the lowly ones of earth?

A star is exiled from the sky.

Shouldn’t we go try to catch it before it hits the ground?

After that, isn’t it just a matter of putting it back in the night?

Stars and Satellites

Last night I saw a satellite hit a star,

And it made me wonder, “Who the heck do we think we are?”

The little girl beside then asked her mother,

“Mommy, can I make a wish on the satellite, it’s kinda like a shootin’ star?”

I almost cried for this poor little girl,

Who lives in so much less of a world.

The little boy across the street heard the talk of stars,

And it made him ask, “Mommy, what’s a star?”

War Song

War is the devil’s entertainment,

            explosions his demented giggles.

Our soldiers are his toys,

            tossed, dumped, tortured, maimed.

Coming home, will things get better?

            probably not, no not at all

The cancer has already chewed on your heart

            and your uniform attacks you when you open the closet.

Stay far far away,

            for the devil wishes to play today.

The Song of Crying

Remember my child,

Don’t cry until the time,

When crying is the wild.

The wolves shall sing,

And the owls hoot,

Until the night, they bring.

The night shall hide the tears,

Of your day’s guilt and sorrow,

And tells you of your fans’ cheers.

For that’s what the night was made for,

Be it made for the all of the crying,

Because crying can make you cherish more.

Of its daughters and sons,

There be the quiet creatures,

That a singing creature shuns.

The insects, the moon,

And all of the others,

Is what the dark can cocoon.

Then the night after such,

Remember, it doesn’t, your tears,

Even if they might have been much.

And when the morning dawn,

Better you shall feel,

As you no longer are the (k)night’s pawn.

But remember my child,

Don’t cry until the time,

When crying is the wild.

Such A Small Casket

Such a small casket, we lay in the dirt,

For worms and moles and beetles to hurt.

Such a small casket can make grown men cry,

And such a small casket makes her mother want to die.

From the prognosis, we knew that in the end she would go,

But when we talked eye-to-eye, I could never tell her so.

The doctors, they tried, I know that they did,

But why couldn’t they save such a pure, innocent kid?

Now my sister is gone, she was only five,

And, oh, how I wish that she were still alive.

I remember when she nearly counted the stars,

She got all the way to eighty-ten, and in the darkness, she had no more scars.

Though the battle was short, it was extremely intense,

But now, at her funeral, I pay recompense,

For all the times that I was not a loving brother,

A child so forgiving, there will never be another.

Cancer’s the devil, this I have concluded,

For what else could kill a five-year-old girl, whose thoughts weren’t polluted?

In fact, she even still knew, stupid’s the s-word.

Such a sweet voice, thousands will never have heard.

“I love you, I love you,” I wish I could go back and say,

On the day when her eyes closed, and in death did she lay.

But now it’s too late, so I must really try,

To get to heaven to see her, and tell her what I meant at the hospital when all I did was cry.

Dedicated to anyone who has lost someone they love to cancer