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Poem
Thus it begins—
A free-verse epic
Into the mind of
A writer and an idiot—
A romantic and, 
Often a pessimist
Conjoined in arbitrary glory
Are the thoughts and words 
Of one overly-worked mind—
Charismatic and, of course,
On the pushover, pitiful
And usually kind side
Ambitious and awkward,
Dark and daring
With the predisposition 
Of neglect and doubt
Mixed with notions of
Unattractiveness and pride of it
The strain of freedom 
Chips the mind of
A flawful perfectionist,
And though she sees color 
And she sees injustice
And all things that most see, 
Perhaps she deems it right
To try and see differently

I am not opposed to uniform
I am not opposed to meter form
Though can this heart beat
In perfect syllables and rhythm
As—let’s say—the great form
Of iambic pentameter! 
I say, prospectively—
If your drum wants to beat 
To that rhythm,
Then by all means
Allow it reign 

But as for me,
I shall let mess be purpose
And purpose gives me surety
That these fragments—
These thoughts,
Will prove worthy
For, after all, 
What are a few words worth,
If in the end they shan’t
Be read? 
Will a writer write for himself, 
Or for the world, 
To witness and appreciate
His inner dimensions?   
Will an idiot acknowledge his stupidity,
Or shall he remain valuable 
Through his own foggy lens?
Will the weight of the world 
Crack his vision,
And lead him to regions
He knows not of?
I have seen the great
Reduced to dust
By the mere vocals of another
I have listened to the 
Relentless cries of the pessimist
And the warm, trickling rays
Of the romantic—
Yet do they see a purpose
In their unique expressions?
Do they feel their beats and rhythms,
And own to the bone what is theirs?  

To be charismatic in words,
But not in nature 
Is a mystery of me
How can I find words to write
With scarcely words to utter? 
I enter dark terrain 
Through rapid fires of thought
They push me to remain
Different and strained
Is there a part of us hidden, 
That in shame is revealed unknowingly
Through our inimitable passions? 
Are our actions snail-paced
When faced with the probability
Of judgement? 
Why then do these words flow free,
With the heavy chance 
Of failure?
Failure perhaps seen by others,
But prominent and bent 
Into yourself?
In the air you breathe
You know your shortcomings
Before others utter your deed
And yet, 
I find glory in a trip
I feel contentment in the fall
Leaves change and crumble
Just as hope fades and returns

Likely I am lost in doubt,
Waiting for a purpose
Made for something better
Expecting the worst
I am unafraid to tread
On the moss
With a friend’s laughter
Only a memory igniting 
Bitterness
Sadness
Why does she never talk?
Have I drifted from all thought? 
I remember happiness, 
Yet I war
I am perpetually lost in the laugh
Waiting to see a smile spring again
I liked the texture between my toes
Green, weird, and wet
I liked being vulgar
And not being afraid
A bee has never stung me
As your absence does
A monster has never scared me
As my heart scares you

There’s a chance I will break
A chance that life means nothing
Thoughts spurt energy
Trust burns holes
Expectations rise into rage
When what meets us 
Is an opposite fate 
We want to receive the expected
And scorn the unexpected
To jeer the underdog
And take glory from heroes
Be needed by the popular
And kill the weak with our pride
What is so repellent 
About being different? 
Do we need to agree on everything?
The phoenix does not burn for you
It is scorched eons times over
Because of who it is
It burns to birth its existence
Over and over and over and over and over and over
And yet we persist that 
We have started the flames!
Does the world revolve around
Your igniting pig-head? 
Do we care where you 
Got the boot that you use
To kick down your fellow man?
I have a flip-flop for your face
And more
Don’t disgrace me 
With your false grace!

I saw a college guy
Stop in the walkway
He paused and stared at the floor
He snatched a leaf off
The ground, and proceeded
To move a piece of poop
Away from the middle of the pathway
The flimsy leaf didn’t get the job done
So he grabs a small stick
And moves the shit off to the side 
I thought of him
As someone I would like to know
He was considerate,
He seemed kind,
Or perhaps he was just a neat-freak—
Either way,
I feel like he was raised well
I thought about myself—
If I were walking down the same path,
Would I ever look down?
Would I even notice the clump of shit?
And if I did,
Would I continue on?
Or would I be like that guy,
And move it aside?
I think I probably wouldn’t,  
Though now that I have witnessed
This simple act,
I might just do it
The next time shit gives me the opportunity

I want to be caring,
I want to be considerate,
I strive to be kind—
For what use is it to be cold
And withdrawn?
Is the fear too strong
As to hold me back
From what is right?
I certainly hope nobility
Wins
But we cannot stop it there
You cannot expect anything
Merely DO it
And minds—actions
Are probable to alter, 
Just as mine has
But I am not everyone—
I am the only one
Who witnessed the meritable act
Perhaps my job now 
Is to pass it on
 

Note: 
I guess this could be categorized as a free-verse epic, hence the title..XD This poem was written in my journal throughout a couple of days during my Creative Writing course in Pasadena. It is really just a trickle of random thoughts, that I thought had some merit and was worthy of sharing with you guys. Hope you enjoyed it.
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