Deep within, darkness creeps
Hooded creature begins to seek,
Don’t you doubt facing fear
Thoughts of an end
Shine of the blade

It will happen
You will die
Don’t deny
You entered my realm
Opened yourself to me
Tear you apart
Splatter, stained walls.

You’re not my first
Won’t be my last
This is always fun
But don’t forget
Others will reach your brutal end.

So
Stay away from darkness
If you try to face your fear
The menace will rise
Come down upon your dreams
The light you seek
Will be gone, without bliss. 

Your parents will cry
raise their arms high and ask why
I’ll sit near by
Laugh while they cry
They don’t know
That I get a high
Watching their children die

Two paths connect and converge

And two voices sing out,

Steps and songs and sounds

Blend, mix, and marry

Into One.

One united front,

One voice,

One direction,

One dream,

One hope,

One love.

The I and You,

the They and Them,

are transformed:

We and Us,

together,

are One.

Walking in step,

Running in step,

Dancing

In beat and time

Linking our arms and our pasts

Towards the inevitable truth that

We are powerful,

Almighty,

And able to accomplish the impossible.

One direction,

One dream,

One world.

In unison and harmony

we shout and sing,

“We are one!

We are different,

We are together

And we are one!”

We steady our pace,

And cross the finish line.

Our destiny, our triumph,

Our victory, our glory,

Reached only because

We are one.

We are here,

We are united.

We are one.

We are one.

Eternally empty pockets
Sloppily placed at
The breast of your shirts

Will never be filled
And will remain

Dark,
Hollow

Cavities

The soft green grass blows in the wind

Now picking up speed

And hastening its intensity.

Its desire solely to stir up emotions from our past.

Branches swaying,

Breaking,

Crashing heavily to the ground.

Frightening Foolish passerbys  running around trying to find shelter.

Why?

The storm-maker will always be here to reconcile with us

By using these gifts of precious time.

Blackening the world above us

As if it was painted with ink.

I am only one of few

That can see its true advocacy

So I run outside and catch a glimpse at the night sky

And stare at it provocatively

Just before my favourite time arises.

Not the rain,

It has no emotion

But what is truly glorious,

Is its booming brother.

LIGHTNING!

And its lover, thunder.

I stand in the midst of the darkness,

As these two sing their tune,

Lightning strikes its mark,

And thunder follows its partner’s ways.

Include me

In your passionate dance of rejuvenation.

Strike me down

Burn me to a crisp.

Why should it matter anyways?

We all need to be shocked back into reality,

And the storm-maker takes it upon himself to do so.

So I stand,

In the middle of the still blowing soft green grass,

Dripping with rain, sorrow, and uncertainty.

So strike me,

STRIKE ME DOWN!

BURN ME!

And wake me up.

Very rough. i’ll edit later. probably going to morph into another song :]
We’re taught to look away,
when we really want to stare.
We’re forced to hold our hands in our laps,
when we want them everywhere.

We’re taught to be reluctant
to hide our true emotions,
to look the other way,
to avoid any commontion

But now I want to see the whole view;
Tear away these cloudy glasses
Feel my feelings, scream my thoughts,
take action; free the masses.

You won’t catch me
relapsing in shame anymore,
when I tell you you’re wrong
to act like this planet’s yours.

and if you call me a hippie
or hopeless romantic
I know you’re just illegitimizing my cause,
face it; reality’s frantic

So stop basing all decisions
on whether the “cool kids are doin’ it”
If we tried another Halocaust
you sheep would be all for it

Don’t let peace be a fickle fad
like a fleeting runway trend
love our earth, live the word
fight for your soul until the end.

Pt. II

Because this really is the Matrix
in the fundamental ways
you’re surrendering to the system,
get jacked in, act in your play

We can all be our own Neo;
Break apart from this corrupt web
sing your own song, be an outcast
live a legacy, one that lasts

Pt. III

I saw this kid who shaved his head. Caught my attention, so I asked him “why’d you do it?” And i think the saddest thing was when he replied indifferently, “to seem interesting”.

Is that what our society
is reduced to today?
soaking up empty attention
with much talk but no say

Idiodic rebels
with no cause in sight
they think this world is their playground
designed for their personal delight

It’s time to grow
some strength of mind
To pick a cause
to choose your plight

Make an impact
have a reason for your rhyme
don’t waste your life
be a leader in these times

This was written as an English class assignment. I just got it back a little bit ago and found that I really liked it. Originally it had been about mythical creatures, but I changed it. Some editing has been done, but not much.

What is it that inspires?
That makes words flow like water?
What force drives authors to type, to write, to feel
The words as they come together,
Making a beautiful symphony of a thousand notes?
What makes authors create works of art,
That even Picasso would be proud to call his own?
What is it?

Is it the cool keys on a keyboard,
That stroke their fingers like an old friend?
Or the smell of paper as they cover,
Its lines with swirling calligraphy?
Is it the feeling of a pencil,
Trapped in their fingers?
Or the feeling of ink on their hands?
What is it?

Is it God who inspires authors so dearly?
Are religion teachers right,
When they tell children that everything is his work?
Does he use people to put his words on paper?
Are all of the awards really his?
Do authors not deserve the credit that they take?
Or is it stolen from our creator?
What is it?

Is it a dream of soldiers and gunfire?
Of princesses and their demon princes?
Are the ideas of these books dreamt,
Created by the subconscious mind?
Could vampires and demons have been born,
From the darkest hours at which they wake?
Is a dream really that vivid?
What is it?

Are they real?
Are all of the mythical creatures,
That haunt and kill, protect and vanquish,
Alive and waiting their shining day?
Did they whisper their stories,
To the authors as they sleep?
Or are the writers their own subjects?
What is it?

The mystery of inspiration will always
Be the greatest of questions.
No one can answer it, no matter how hard they try.
It’s too complex for the human mind.
Only the authors, as they fill pages with words,
Will know the secrets to their magical worlds.
They are like magicians, they never reveal their tricks.
What is it? We will never know.