I write poems not for the joys of others but because my mind spill these broken thoughts

Wild imaginations of blue moons with skies reflecting the shade of my tears

Grey heart broken into glass mirrors

Once neglected is heard through art.

I write for me and mine

And as selfish that might be

I am tired for weeping for other broken minds

Weary of washing feet like Christ

Postrating for love and attention

Praying for hope and redemption.

My mind an endless bottomless chasm that bridges my mind to my soul

Writings of madness joy spilled out on crushed paper

For me to listen and enjoy

Simplistic words creates complicated stanzas

Reminds me to live joyously in the creation of my own.

Only I can truly know the countless desires in my mind

Like glittering stars in blackened skies

True love of letters adore

Glorified by my heaven's door.

I write poems not for the joy of others

But for them to understand the pain of others

Inspite of the joy in their own

And for me to spill the broken thoughts on whites below.