Reality is whatever my words make it.

 

A long forgotten shack in the middle of a blizzard,

white, icicles hanging on the brim of it's shaking limbs,

creaking under the weight of the air clobbering it from every side,

beaten and worn under the weight of the world.

 

Green forests and leaves moved by the sunlights strength,

plummeting downward to search for glittering gold in the earth below,

landing on inconspicious geraniums that explode into

an array of orange, glowing brighter than the sun.

 

A broken street of forgotten dreams, going on for miles,

tearing open the sky, only to fall off the edge of the earth.

It mixes into the black, milky expanse lying below;

it's a wonderland, a battlefield, where everyone, everything ends.

 

My words are what makes reality.

 

Escape your worries

and embark on an excursion

to places that excite your very senses.

Where happy endings exist,

if you want them to.

Where you can make a difference with the flick of a wrist,

or a click of a key.

Where words flow off your tongue

into artistic formations that calm the senses

and ease the mind.

Where Robert Frost's paths make sense

and you choose the road less traveled

for the chance to discover a scenery unknown to mankind.

 

Poetry has been a journey;

It entered my world in years

when I needed a friend,

an escape to a better world

without war and madness.

It remained my companion 

through bitter times, 

through sweet times, 

through times when I cast it aside. 

It was the friend I needed, 

and in time I learned that it was

the friend people needed 

to keep their monsters at bay,

to keep themselves at bay. 

 

My words can shape reality,

and they can shape yours too.