Poems

New and old poems can be found here:

The sound of birds cheering,
Flowers bloom on a cold
Winter’s day,
The air is pure
and men are singing
on their
gondolas,
I drift peacefully through
a river with no end
in sight
The banks have burst and
Im flooded with expressions,
I am reminded that my
band is eternal
and the bond forever strengthened
until death do us part,
and even then
our souls intertwined
by heavenly divine
love

Life flows through a
valley of water.
Turbulence pushing us
along while we dodge and
weave rocks as obstacles
in our path.
Dreams flood the banks
and when we finally
reach the end,
we crash down to
the rocks below.
Rock bottom.
But this is not the end,
our life flows down a
rivine that’s gentler,
no more rocks to avoid,
but people to marvel at our
heroic downfall and sip
on our tranquility.

I step out into the crisp, cold curtain of air,
My mind wandering down a rocky path,
what will come of this day or the next,
who will be hurt by life’s hands?

I make my way to the vehicle covered in
tragedies,
the emotions still fresh from yesterday’s mess,

to be the one to save a life,
is more of a curse than a gift,
to absorb the tragedies of stranger’s,
is something none can comprehend.

The curse of being a human,
the curse of having feelings,
the curse of having eyesight,
witnessing the trauma without the healing.

But what is life,
without it’s struggle,
without you crying “why me?!”

Life would be a boring race
of success with no
growth.

We complain about struggle
because it’s as painful as a
fractured limb regrowing
continuously.

But that limb grows stronger,
resilience builds in body,
the heart pumps stronger
and dream become reality.

Oh to be struck down like
an old tree who’s roots were once
strong.

I dream of a day when all misery recedes
into the dark filthy ocean it came from.

Crying over spilled milk
won’t make the cookie taste
any sweeter.

Torment after torment,
hit after hit,
eye of the tiger playing in the background.

Life hits harder than any boxer
ever will.
To be kicked while you down
and then spat on.

Life is tough and you my friend
have to be tougher.
Every decision is between life
and struggle,
death comes either way.

Her power of love,
strong as a volcanic eruption
of hot lover.

Her touch as gentle as a feather
sitting perked up on your lap.
she flows like a curtain in the wind
and her eyes meet yours
with the heat of a million
sun beams.

Her grip holds you tighter than
any nightmare ever will,
leaving you to sleep peacefully
when she comes over.

Attempting a poem
is like writing a song,
1. .2..3
It can be done by anyone really.

You think of the words with
the rhythm and flow,
you just let the letters write
and let the world go.

You put a beat to your stanza
and write a little more,
you can rhyme the words or
not let the rhyme at all.

You put your heart on plain white
paper,
you can write one sentence or so many
that you need a stapler.

You can put your darkest regret
in any colour ink,
go on, write and don’t worry about
what they think.

Poetry is therapy this I can attest,
writing poetry with emotion is always
the best.

Don’t worry about fancy words or
nonchalant french,
just write a poem in your workspace
or on a park bench.

Write a poem about day or a poem
about night,
it really doesn’t matter,
just shut up and write.

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