writing poetry....

      
     
     deep rooted pain; dissatisfaction with an appetite to maintain; waves that ripple in the brain; a temporary ounce of peace to gain;      
     
     
      a summer or spring between us aren't viewed the same; exterior things temporarely quiets a disturbed brain; what am I really saying;      
     
     
  I'd love an actual end to take place;      
life as one knows it disguises a true face; writing stems from a space, of fallen grace....      
     
     
I think poetry; I think bare feet, and worn clothes; I think the world's weight and its toll; I think sanctuary from the unforgiven cold;      
     
     
a "bird" could be shot out of the sky; a "lion" could lose its pride; drive to "rise and grind" could die over time; bruised, bitten, beaten yet breathing some form of life....      
     
     
  contemplation, and sleepless nights,      
temptation and grief that bites till nerves aren't right;      
the pen like coal that runs the train of thought where ones' soul is "stationed" in this matrix called life....