More poetry.

If love was a page.
My page would be unwritten.
For I am young and naive.
And often bitten.
By the ones I let in too close.
Who think my heart to be a joke.
And cast me away.
Into a bin full of waste.
Am I waste?
Am I a waste of time?
I don't even care if any of my words rhyme.
I have no structure.
I have no chain.
I have no master.
I am no slave.
I enjoy walking where no other has been before.
I see beauty behind closed doors.
I want to be someone remembered.
Loved and cared for.
But all hope just seems lost now.
Should I care anymore?

Shorter, sweeter.

Procrastination is a pain,
I cannot afford to let it win again.
I work too hard to be thrown to the ground.
Struggling, helpless, I scream, no sound.
I often think of a town so mellow,
And in this dream I'm a happy fellow.
I do not want perfection,
Only grace, and fine protection.
For, perfection is a substance that can never be attained.

Poetry is kind of a big deal..

Here I stand,
At the mercy of a windstorm.
In the arms of bulletproof glass.
I am so protected,
but I can still fall apart.

Here I stand,
feet on the ground,
shoulder to the wall.
Relaxation is overrated,
destiny will call.

Here I stand,
In a hole dug six feet.
There is no telling, here,
Whom all I might meet.
Take me foward.

Here I stand,
In the light of all that once was.
In a galaxy of unknown.
Don't even ask.
You are not allowed to know.