Rebellious Sinner

I lift my hands up,
They're worn from defeat,
Acts of rebellion,
Are poisoning me,
My blemished hands,
None want to see,
A disgrace to the one,
Who wants to heal me,
I am numb at broken promises,
Disgusted in my weakness,
The dark one's plots are relentless,
They harbor upon my laddened soul,
Of imperfection and sin untold.

A sinner's plea

A wretched creature,
I am, I am,
Bound in my own chains.
By the devil's hands,
My soul he hungers,
To ruin me,
His venomous lies,
Poison my being.

He tempts me with lust,
A promising disguise,
To watch me fall again,
To mock my soul's cries,
Hurling self-worth,
He spits in my face,
Telling me I'm unworthy,
Of infinite grace.

I look down at my hands,
And down to my feet,
Chains I have made,
Shows a spirit of defeat,
Is his grace even big enough,
To save a sinner like me?

I look at his wrists,
And the blood-soaked tree,
My chains fell off,
My soul set free,
His look of pure love,
Seems too good to be.

For such a wretched creature,
Someone like me,
For a wretched creature,
I am, I am.



Dysfunctional are we,
As pots of clay,
Imperfect and molded,
By the words of mere men,
That shape our wants and desires from within,
How foolish though is the man that is he,
His destiny chosen by someone's beliefs,
When he is a symphony awaiting to be played,
In perfect harmony,
To make his debut,
Each note sounded out in perfect accord to each word,
He chooses his scenery, his passion, his love,
For she fits him,
Molds to him to complete the piece,
That the one who was molding left out,
A delicate mystery of how he found her,
Her nimble hands as she sewed back,
The buttons upon his favorite tweed jacket,
Or the way her eyes seemed to glisten,
When he smiled to her before leaving the shop,
Her dark, soft hair fitting the picture perfectly,
Engraved upon his mind,
Though years it did take to find the right one,
His finishes his work, his piece,
The job is done,
And the new pot of fine clay,
Is molded with her,
And they become one.

These Warriors

The beat of the old drums echoes in my ears,
Their sound has been remodeled, refashioned,
Into gun fires and explosions,
A cynical melody,
A symphony of unnerving sound,
The play their tune upon the lives of others,
These warriors play a part of the piece too,
Walking the reddened fields,
I am struck by the sight,
Each marred face and blood soaked body,
As I continue walking on,
Their eyes still intense with their efforts & passion,
To protect their homeland but not in vain,
My searching eyes wonder at how they accomplish such a task,
Of violent brutality and heart shattering pain,
Yet they still manage to have some strength,
Down to even the very last second,
As I walk these hallowed grounds once again,
I am reminded of their selfless act,
That allows me to be standing now,
Where I am.



Subliminal, Passionate,
Your love is true,
Such unselfish kindness,
I find in you.

Such joy and wonder,
Flowing through my veins,
My heart is racing and,
Cannot contain this blissful feeling,
Whimsical- I fall for you,
Uniquely fashioned,
Is what I love about you.

You never take,
Nor ask,
Nor use or abuse,
You just love me recklessly- endlessly,
I muse.

What did I do,
To deserve a love so pure,
Is this a reward for waiting,
Until I met you?


The Fallen

So I had to write a poem for my AP Language & Compostion class & this is what I came up with. Hope you like it :)

The wounded are down
The sick, the bleeding,
None to pick them up,
Another man of "righteousness",
Passes them by for they are,

Blemished on the outside,
Just as we are within,
The colorless clouds close in and around,
A frown.

The wind sighs at the thought,
Of our careless pretenses,
Our clouded objectives,
Our morals given little thought,
Wrapped up in ourselves, we are selfish,
Engorged in ourselves,
Our desires,

We leave them lying,
On the stone-paved, cold, gray pavement,
Of cobblestone and rough cement,
Between the boulevard of the broken,
The avenue of the reckless,
The December night starts start to dim out,
The black midnight moon darkens,
As another one falls,
With no one to help him,

This bleak town looks down on them,
Ashamed of their presence,
The dead winter leaves mourn the proud one's haughty glances,
Who will pick these beloved up?
Save them?
Defend them?

Or will they be left to suffer in silence,
Unable to save themselves,
As we all once were,
Will always be.