As the Cellar Door squeaks

Literature isn't a game.
..And it’s not easy.
It isn't simple, It’s very difficult.

Sifting threw lines, 
Spending precious time,
Making words mingle.
Life is suppose to give you wrinkles.

I Wanna be better.    
Even though  I’m not bad. 
I only drink the water,
and live off the land.  
It’s hard to be happy 
When so many are sad.
This world is drowning in greed.
And I’m a man who only takes 
what I need.

Ask what you will.
I’ll tell.., if I wish.
Beg what you want.
I’ll give...if I can.

Take at risk,
Some tainted, Amidst.

Beware what’s to come.
You wont know..
Till it’s centre and front.

Hold on strong..
Strong as you can.
The wind will blow it..
right out of your hand.

You learn the rules on the road.
And the blues from the dove.

Its out of the box.

And making the walls fall.

Out of this world, 
then make the stars come down.

Daydream fears,
And a bucket of tears.
One more dare and
No more cares.
Have another lyric,
Il be there.
Won’t be long,
I’ll be stripped bare.

II 
It’s not a brain washing machine,
Or demanding your beliefs,
On any one who opens the cellar door.

Merely there for all to adore.
Any one who wishes to absorb.

A simple widget provokes to think.
Any thing around could be a link.
Adds to the vibe, lyric or speech.

Symbolisms are touchy
Some times you get lucky,
Multiple minds 
at the the same place,
In the same time.
Words are like munchies.

Some laughing, some crying, 
Some living, some dying,
Some loving,
Some criticizing.

“As the cellar door squeaks..
The ink paints the portrait and
The pen profoundly speaks”.

A good poet can make there thoughts a flavour.
A great poet can put everyone else’s
On paper.