This is not about war!

This is not about war!
This is not about our leaders, teachers, preachers
Those charged with our lives.
No not our lives, at least not all.
Though some have chosen to give life,
and others were simply chosen
without a choice
Not given a voice
But we all have a voice
or so they say.
I say we need to speak up
but you don't hear me.
Can you hear me?

This is about change!
The currency of alteration.
The sense of insurrectionary tender,
pressed by minds of altruistic men
and disbursed by the fearless.
Well not fearless,
for they are the ones who fear the extant of contented prevalence.
This raze of profitable advance.
So we must make a stand!
But who will stand to gain from such a stand?
And at what cost?
For the roots of evil will bear the fruit our ascent,
and hypocrisy will fuel our struggle.

This is about revolution!
A siege of restitution
for souls misled,
innocent blood shed,
poverty unfed,
and hope left for dead.
Wake up!,
its all in your head.
Planted with the seed of sentience.
Pregnant with obligation.
Birthed and raised by imperious action
because father time and mother earth are mortal.
And though we are eternal,
we must act now!

This is about you and me!
This promised land of promise
not given to us for free.
We must take back what is ours!
But it was never ours,
and if it were,
could we bear the weight of its burden?
Or are we just as weak,
strong only in our speech?
Damn, listen to me.
Maybe I should quiet
and listen to He,
because only in death will we truly be free.

This is not about war!
This is about the battle within!
This is about....what you make of it!

Beau Ideal

Beauty:
She is an invitation
A portrait rejecting her painter
Yet longing for life in the stroke of His brush

Fashioned:
In the image of perfection
Manifested in her essence
But evanesced in her eyes

Broken:
By the weight of the very color she bears
Bleeding tears of eternal hope and pain
Visible only to those who will listen

Precious:
No price can be given to her
Though she has been bought in full
From the source of her worth

Captured:
As if time stood still just for her
Bound by the borders of His keep
Not knowing here she is truly free

Beauty:
She is an invitation
Lost in everlasting
Preserved in mind

Untitled Love

First let me start by saying that this poem is not a suicide note or anything like that. It was actually composed accidentally by writing down random lines from what I was hearing on the news, what my friend was saying and what I was thinking. Then I looked down at the page and it seemed to kind of fit together, so I tweaked it and came up with this......

love untitled
enjoy getting older,
pretending I am fine.
running.......trying to catch up
leaving life and love behind.
joy in expression,
sentenced to the bottom,
a .22, muffled right and nobody would know

but I look both ways, before dying

palms kissing
pleading for release,
always loving with her foot upon the brake.
a re-inactment
piecing myself together
twist -n- turn and all but learn
im bleeding in retrospect.
reflection:
another poured shot of pain
still not quite numb enough
for the pentence I require.

so I look both ways, before dying

there has to be more,
more to you
more to me,
but time is blind
and gives no sympathy!
still i look both ways before dying

My true love

I found my true love today
Though she does not know it
Because all I wished to say
Was foolishly remit

Not for a lack of want
More a surplus of fear
Loud enough to daunt
The wispers in my ear

Still I managed speak
And love returned the same
In a voice soft and meek
Such the source by which it came

All time under her spell
I was bound in its sleep
Stayed by love's quell
Amenable in her keep

But when she let it go
I traversed in its stride
Thus she'll never know
The her I hold inside

I lost my true love today
Left right back at the start
Nothing given away
Except my unassuming heart