This odd road I take to write

This is what I do
for you:

I clobber words together
with every letter
to tell you what my story's about,
then I put emotion behind them
and try to rhyme them
as I speak and shout.

I seek out really sad stories
and old former glories
and retell them as if it was a game,
or I let out my voices
that give horrible choices
and publish it all in my name.

I look on through eyes
that have seen some of life's big lies
and gaze at beauty with fixation,
then I dream them with colour
in the life of another
and let them explore all nations.

I let life flow by,
never stopping to cry,
so that great things explode onto page,
and I deal with higher things
without a tether, net or wings
as to try to surpass my own age.

So just keep on reading my journey's road
as I go on on abroad,
so that I will continue my tale,
because when I finally fail to live,
whether because of time or shiv,
the ideas will go on, without fail.

:And this is what you see
for me.

tak-tak-BANG-tak-tak

I ready the old drums of war,
but not for what they were intended for.
This time the beat I used to play
will have to fade and go away.

I'm playing a sound never tried before,
and have no clue how well it will score,
for the reason that I now bring these out
is not for the usual laughable bout.

I used to use these tools for fun,
to start a battle, and then to run
to the higher place to watch the hell
that I had just started on a random spell.

But those days are gone, and I've hidden that beat.
Those little battles that ended in defeat
still linger in the darker parts of my mind
although less than before, for now I find

those beats I played everso long ago
are coming back and letting me know
that that had worked will work so well now,
and this time, I'll be on top, and willing to bow.

So I start up the beat, nostalgia rings through,
the bad time from then will help me against you.
I will orcastrate this all the way to the end,
and you will, never, EVER, try to hurt another friend.

Those who walk the storm

I walk through the worst storm of the year,
taking my time, having no fear,
laughing when blasts of sound come in,
and watching as rain curtains grow think and thin.

The wind tries to blow me everywhich way,
and though it seems like it'll just last the day,
I let it slip on, no plans where to go,
just taking the long route, making every step slow.

I spot what looks like the sign of another
who was walking at ease, not searching for cover,
and soon, we were walking, whereever we may walk,
and smiling when sound made it impossible to talk.

We look upon a world that was covered in rain,
but had, nonetheless, looked overall the same,
and while we had meant no offense to another,
laughed as he sprinted blindly for any form of cover.

And then it hit me: we were those who lived through this before,
so that we could do it again, and again. and even more.
Because after surviving tall the struggles and strife,
how scary can it be to go through a storm called life?