The Light In The Dark

Day in
Day out
Reports come
Of evil deeds being done
Child used as sex toys
Adults beaten to death
Teens committing suicide

Day in
Day out
Reports are told
Of nations preparing for war
Of genocides being committed
Of wars being waged

Yet in all of that
There is light
Of a man who stopped a jumper
Of women saving children
Of people intervening

The world is a dark place
And the news is not good
But there is hope and there is light
And if you cannot find the light
Then act for the light

The Human Mind

The human mind.
What a strange thing.
A massive void of infinity
In something smaller
Than a watermelon.

Though not measured by science
Or seen by the eyes
Its presence is felt
Its existence
Never in doubt

Capable of making
The greatest dreams,
Gathering knowledge,
And store within
A vast expanse.

Yet the mind is not a wonder
But rather something else
A place where fears hide
Where hate and pain festers
There it grows and spreads

Though at the same time
The mind is strong
Defending itself
Fighting to be strong
Recovering from hurts

Though a writer may create a thousand world
Forming hope and wonder for countless others
Fear though builds an ironclad prison.
Trapping the soul
Breaking the heart

Such a strange thing
The mind is
A place where light and dark exists
Where pain and hope lives
Where creativity dwells

This is the human mind

The Darkness

The day is falling
Darkness is rising

I watch its march across the land
All that was once true and apparent
Become lost in shadows and mystery

The day has ended
The darkness is complete

Yet I still see light
In the glimmers of the sky
They twinkle and twirl

Beneath the tree limbs
Dancing among the shadows
Are the dancing light

So perhaps the darkness is not wholly evil
Perhaps it is to show the light in the deepest places.

How Strange

To be filled with joy
To be filled with peace
Yet not be able to write

When rage and sorrow
Well up within the soul
The words flow with ease

When lost in thought
When the spirit is heavy
Is it easy to write

Is it the curse of the poet?
Or is it the change in heart?

Will the darkness fade
Before the light of day?

Or will the pen become still
And the writer no longer write?