He had so many futures,
so many paths to choose from.
It’s truly a pity, then, that he never did choose one;
choosing instead to watch his choices melt away,
one by one,
swallowed by The Choice He Never Made.


“A hundred paths,
all shining bright;
a hundred paths
he’d never take.

He chose instead
to stay in bed—
a fateful choice
he’d never make.”


His options were lovely,
each one leading to Greatness.
But the longer he stayed,
the more time he wasted,
the less of them he seemed to see.


“Fifty paths,
still shining bright.
He didn’t choose;
he’d rather wait.

Why choose today,
when either way
all fifty paths
led somewhere great?”


He sat, unperturbed,
as the Choice He Never Made continued to burn through his options,
eliminating the remaining paths.
Destiny, he resolved, would decide his path.


“Seven paths,
not quite as bright—
yet tantalizing
all the same.

He’d sit and wait
to see his fate;
patiently,
until it came.”


It happened fast, and all at once,
when it dawned on him—
he had made the Choice He Never Made.


“A hundred paths,
upon a time.
A game he watched,
but never played.

A hundred gone,
except for one—
the Choice he chose,
but never made.”

It happened, as we walked into the narrow space between Fantasy and Metaphor, that we came upon the hills of Truth, and I sensed above me that which I could not know but almost did.

I asked the man, "Tell me, kind sir, what is it that I cannot know but almost do?"

"I cannot tell you," said the man.

We continued on, until we reached the rippling waters of the Self. And as we watched the gentle waves, I sensed behind me that which I once knew but then forgot.

I asked the man, "Tell me, kind sir, what is it that I once knew but then forgot?"

"I've already told you," said the man.

We continued on, until we arrived at the very center of Love. There we stood, and suddenly I sensed within me that which I knew, but could not speak.

I asked the man, "Tell me, kind sir, what is it that I know but cannot speak?"

And the man said, "That is You."

Then I said, "But if I cannot speak it, how will They ever know Me?"

The man laughed. "They already do," he said.

Then he turned and walked away, toward the narrow space between Fantasy and Metaphor whence he had come.

Of the vast amount of Days that make up the mysterious creation we call Time, there is but one Day with which we are intimately familiar, and that is Today.

It just so happened that when a certain argument arose between Days of the Past and the Days of the Future, and they agreed to settle the matter in a historic gathering of all Days, it was Today who was chosen to preside over the convention.

It all began when Tomorrow complained to Two Days Ago that Yesterday had made a real mess of things. It was Yesterday's selfish choices, he said, that had caused Tomorrow's problems. Two Days Ago foolishly repeated this to Yesterday, who immediately got to work rallying the Preceding Days to his defense.

Last Week Monday, short tempered by nature, considered this an attack not just on Yesterday but on the entire Past. It was a dangerous precedent, he warned the other Days of Last Week, wagging his finger dramatically. The Past must be respected, and this practice of Past-Blaming ought to be nipped in the bud. This stirred much resentment among the Upcoming Days, who were themselves quite frustrated with the events of the Past.

It was at this point that Today was notified of the unrest, and he pleaded with them to remain calm, but tensions were escalating far too quickly for diplomacy to be effective. Before long, entire Generations of the Past and Future were taking sides, mostly along partisan lines (with the exception of a few nostalgic Days in the distant Future who sided with the Past, which the rest of the Future denounced as a despicable betrayal).

Out of pure desperation, Today suggested they all gather for a formal discussion, and work on a solution together. (At which point one of the Ancient Days snorted loudly. "Yes, together,” Today repeated forcefully, glaring at him.).

Nobody could think of a better course of action, and they couldn't deny that, since Today was neither in the Past nor in the Future, he was their best shot at objectivity. And so they grudgingly consented. All that remained was for each side to choose a representative.

The obvious candidates were Yesterday and Tomorrow, seeing as it was they who had started it all, but as they were not on speaking terms this was deemed impractical. After some deliberation, the Past nominated a distinguished Day from A While Back, who had a tendency to begin every sentence with, "Back in my day..."

The Future, meanwhile, chose a particular Day from Twenty Years From Now, who, despite his mildly infuriating habit of quoting "the research" in a rather condescending manner, had a knack for winning debates.

In a surprisingly short time, they had all assembled around Today, who was quickly beginning to regret his proposal.

The representative of the Past spoke first. He rambled on for a long while in a monotone about the primacy of the Past, raising his voice ever-so-slightly to emphasize certain lines, such as "It is the mistakes of the Past which pave the way to the achievements of the Future" and "back in my day, it was well understood that the Future is but a shadow of the Past." (The vast majority of Days had fallen asleep by now, but they were abruptly woken at the conclusion of the speech by the enthusiastic applause of the speaker's Year.)

The representative of the Future then rose to speak. His speech was concise and professional, occasionally supplemented by complex graphs and charts, (which the Past couldn't help but be impressed by). It was, however, cut short when he made the grave mistake of describing the Past as "primitive," which drew cries of outrage from the scandalized Past. The Future retaliated by chanting, "Pri-mi-tive! Pri-mi-tive!" — an act which so angered one Medieval Day that he lunged at them, shouting, "Blasphemy! Blasphemy!" before being restrained by some nearby Days. (It took an entire Week to subdue him, although in all fairness they were mostly Sundays, which are not known for their efficiency.)

The assault, though unsuccessful, removed any remaining pretense of formality and politeness. Accusations and insults now flew freely between the two camps, while Today feebly attempted to restore order.

One autumn Day from the Distant Future (whom the Future had previously considered nominating as their representative, and who was therefore eager to have his voice heard,) called for silence, and demanded that the Past apologize for what he claimed was essentially "partying at the expense of the Future."

Several Days from the Dark Ages responded to this by pointing out that the Past was hardly a picnic, and that they were more than willing to trade places if the Future so desired. This sparked another chaotic shouting match over whether or not the Days of the Past had it more difficult than the Days of the Future.

It was at this point that the Very Last Day (who was in a rotten mood, having just woken up from his speech-induced nap), over shouted them all, declaring that if they wouldn't quit bickering, he'd tell them How It All Ends and spoil History for everybody. What's more, he added, while he neither knew nor cared which Day was to blame for what, he did know that he wasn't particularly enamored with the way Today was shaping up.

A murmur of assent rippled through the crowd. At last, the Past and Future were in agreement!

And so the Days, thoroughly exhausted from all the fighting, voted unanimously to blame all their troubles and difficulties on Today, who was now sobbing pitifully some distance away.

And that is how it came to be that of the vast amount of Days that make up the mysterious creation called Time, Today is the very worst day of all.

The streets are deserted; the cars are done beeping
It is silent, apart from the willow tree's weeping
And even old Mr. McRoger is sleeping.

            (Mr. McRoger, I'm sure you have guessed,
            Is a make-believe man who does not like to rest.

            Although, when he finally does get to bed,
            His sleep is so deep you'd have thought he was dead!

            ...You'd have thought so,
                     if not for the sound of his snoring
            which some of his neighbors have trouble ignoring.
            But back to our story, before it gets boring)

Not one suicidal remains on the bridge!
Not one midnight snacker is left in the fridge!
All are asleep on this side of the lake.
And if all are asleep ...

                            ... why are YOU still awake?

It is dark, which surely you know means it's night
And the thing to be done is to put out the light
And if the thing to be done's not the thing that you do
Then SOMETHING inside must be bothering you!

You're much too mature
and clever, I'm sure
        To be frightened of monsters
and things that might **** you

You're not old enough
to be stressed about stuff
        Such as taxes, and how much
the grocery might bill you

SO ...

If it's dark and it's night and your age isn't three
And you don't pay for food cause you get it for free
Then there's only one thing it can possibly be

You, my friend, must be the sort of young lad
Who can't fall asleep cause he's simply too sad.

I know how you're feeling; I've seen it before
You feel like you just can't go on anymore

You've sunken so deep and you've fallen so low
That you think,
            "Just how low can I possibly go?
            Of all the lows, this one's the lowliest spot.
            Can I go any lower? Why, no, I cannot."

Well, I'm here to tell you, you can and you will!
In just a few days you will sink lower still!
And lower and lower and lower UNTIL...
THIS low will seem like the top of a hill!

UNLESS ...

Things COULD get better.
They COULD, but they WON'T.
They could and they should and they would,
                               but they DON'T.

SO ...

Since you must be exhausted
from digging that deep,
You may as well
just go to sleep.

This is a poem.

I wrote it because I'm sad

and if somebody likes it,
maybe they'll say so

which might make me less sad for a little bit.

It’s hard to define just what makes it so fun;
The comic relief, or perhaps it’s the thrill
But if you’d ask us which game was our favorite one,
It’s Pushing the Wheelchair Down Roseberry Hill.

No-one in town recalls how it all started,
But it soon became part of our daily routine:
To the hilltop the handicapped kid would be carted,
And we’d laugh as he fell, till he couldn’t be seen.

Oh, the terrified look that he gets in his eyes!
And that whimper, I tell you, it never gets old.
Nor does the echoing sound of his cries
As he tumbles and bounces; it’s comedy gold!

We don’t know his name; see, the poor kid is mute.
Luckily, though, he still knows how to scream
He screams all the way down, which we find rather cute,
Then we do it again, till we run out of steam

Now, now — there’s no need to feel bad for the kid;
The screaming and crying are all just for show!
It can’t actually bother him much; if it did,
He’d man up and stop being handicapped, no?

Behold! The sight
               of shifting eyes
      bouncing ‘round its fellow pair
As darkness falls
               and contact dies
      mirroring the moon’s harsh glare

Hearken, ye!
               That subtle sound…
      the dying gasps of slaughtered words
Sputtering
               as they are drowned
      by dropping pins and cricket-birds

Alas! The stench
               of stale vibes
      the sweaty feel a handshake leaves
The aftertaste
               your mouth imbibes
      of musty webs that Silence weaves

There once was a boy
And that boy was named Me
The boy had a heart
and a head, and a knee

He had other limbs, too
But what puzzled him most
Was the sensitive heart
to which he was host

What lay inside it?
And why was it there?
What made it cry
when its soft skin would tear?

The boy was intrigued
And so one rainy night
He got out of bed
and he turned on the light

He went to the kitchen
and got a small blade
He paused for a moment
a little afraid

He took off his shirt
So it wouldn't get stained
when he'd open his heart
to see what it contained

He steadied his hand
and dug into his gut
He ripped out his heart
and started to cut

Ignoring the pain
he continued to slice
Secrets, he knew,
always come at a price

As his heart shrunk in size
Like a punctured balloon
The boy understood
that he'd die very soon

He reached the last layer
and peeled the last peel
And the last thing he saw
Was a small ball of steel

Objection, your Honor!
On behalf of the accused,
I demand that this excessively
    harsh sentence be reduced!

Beside that, Your Honor
Can judgement be dispensed
Behind the subject’s back
    and without hearing his defense?

Moreover, Your Honor
Is this what you call fair?
To destroy, with zero evidence
    a man and his career?

But answer me, Your Honor
—Though I highly doubt you can—
Who gave you the authority
    to judge your fellow man?

If life is a song
    with its ups and its downs
    its smiles and frowns

If life is a song
    which bridges and loops
    as it rises and droops

If life is a song
    with the drops and the jumps
    the falls and the bumps

If life is a song
    and it’s beat, the clock’s ticks
        why must mine be
                a DJ mix?

If I ever said I revel in darkness,
I misspoke.
If I ever sang the praises of dusk,
I was mistaken.

Because it’s not the dark I enjoy,
nor is it the night I adore.
I realize that now.

It’s the contrast
—the beauty—
of the specks of light
shining through the black sky,
the heroes who are not fazed by the sunset.
I realize that now.

I realize that now, on a cloudy night.

There is a class
Across the sea
That's small in size
With students, three

The students' names
And average grades
Are A, B, C
The roll-book states

Of the trio
A's the one
Who aces tests
And frowns on fun

The apple of
His teacher's eye
A has nary
Cause to cry

Kid C exults
In being bad
He signs his name
"Rebellious Lad"

His afternoons
He's proud to mention
He spends with teacher
In detention

A classic class
Don't you agree?
What's that you say?
Oh, pardon me!

There's also B!
I quite forgot
An oversight-
Thanks a lot!

In the snow and the slush
I'm walking in a rush
Walking fast, coming last
And my toes are losing touch

Snow be upon me, and render me helpless

It's raining cats and mice
And the window don't entice
Water wet, mix with sweat
Under awnings and street lights

Rain be upon me, and render me helpless

Waiting for the train
There's one in the other lane
And I wait, always late
Wait an hour till it came

Traffic be upon me, and render me helpless

I get on and and there's a crowd
And the ruckus really loud
Hold my breath, choke to death
And my feet don't reach the ground

Claustropho-bia pon me, and render me helpless

And when I'm helpless, I can feel
What's a phony and whats real
Cause I got earphones in my ears
And I live beyond my cares

I've been taking some time off
From writing down my thoughts
From writing all the things I used to think when I felt lost

It's doing me some good
Shut my brain down like I should
Committing mental suicide, I need not hide behind my hood

See, here it's not like home
I don't spend time on my own
And the battles in my head take place in bed when I'm alone

But when the thoughts come they will find
The eye I turn to them is blind
Because sometimes, to stay alive, you've got to **** your mind

People say I'm obsessive, and I wholeheartedly agree. I'd die for a favorite artist, and I reread stories I like until I hate them. I force myself to love every song performed by "my band", to a point where I'm not entirely sure which of their tunes actually earned their place in my heart.
It brings to mind a modern-Hebrew term, "protektzia". It can be translated as social leverage, or "pull". Protektzia is when you are related to the administrator of an elite high school, or when you're friendly with the secretary of a sought-after doctor. It's as if songs walk up to me and say, "hey, I know I'm not that great, but I was written by so-and-so!"
All that changes when old Depression drops by. Suddenly, things I cared so much for are meaningless. It's like quarreling with a close friend. Although, I don't hate my former faves so much as scorn them, for being silly enough to exist.
Why does depression do this to me? Because depression is the drainage of passion. As a cow needs to be milked and a dripping air-conditioner needs a bucket, what are obsessions if not an outlet for the passion contained in the heart?
But neither are necessary when the cow is dead and the AC off.
Thankfully, depression to me is a mood rather than a condition, and so I host frequent reunions with my beloved idols.
You are all invited!

Some of you sense this is a letter of defense
And in light of recent events,
I won’t bother with attempts to cover it up, to hide it
To put up a pretense
I ain’t tryin’ to act all misunderstood
I know I could and I should see the good in the love and the care people bear for their son or their friend or their brother so dear

I. But when people them say I don’t try hard enough
That I do what I want, that my hardships are bluff
I scream on the inside, or outside, sometimes
(and I promise, inside I ain’t screamin’ in rhymes)
You may have been in my situations at times
But were you ever me? And will you ever be?
Did you ever see
How I sit in my seat at school every day?
And the torture it is? Do you think that’s okay?
And if you did, (think while you’re reading this poem)
Have you ever seen the way I am at home?
Have you ever seen what I think in my head?
What I dream in my sleep?
How I feel in my bed?
Did you ever hear the things I have said
When no-one’s around?
What I love? What I dread?

II. Some people sincerely do try to relate
“How are you doing?” they ask. I’m just great.
They say I’m in pain. What does that even mean?
Being me isn’t hard, it’s quite simple and clean.
I’m lazy and selfish. I hate doing work.
I see responsibility as something to shirk.
Overall, I’m a ****, with a lot of strange quirks
I’m a horrible person with demons that lurk.
I’m in love with my demons. I like them. I do.
They make things exciting, and help with poems too.
So don’t pick a fight with ‘em, please stop inciting
I don’t need no help with a war I ain’t fighting

III. Lastly, please, pretty please, stop with the sighing
The crying, the prying, I feel like I’m dying
Or already dead, by the grief on your faces
Like I’m haunting your places, just filling up spaces
Please, when we talk about prices of tea
Don’t bring up my “issues”, don’t talk about me
I feel like whenever you’re looking at me
My hardships and failures are all that you see
I can’t handle all this disappointment around me
I didn’t choose my problems, I swear it — they found me

In short, my request is, please don’t judge and blame
But don’t pretend to understand, that’s almost the same
Thirdly, my issues are not what I’m made of
So please don’t bring up something that I’m afraid of

Thank you for helping, for being sincere,
Signed Yø-c, who loves you and knows that you care

It's been some time, a lengthy while
Since I've written poems freestyle
Rhymes, you see, are pretty things
But they're like birds with broken wings

But when freestyle starts feeling fake
And no longer relieves my ache
I take refuge in dear old rhyme
Till my music can truly chime

I. When death smells like sunshine
and graveyards like candy
I feel like a dagger
might just come in handy

II. This Dagger I have
It's made out of spite
It's silvery white
but now it looks red

This Dagger and I
We got into a fight
It killed me last night
and now I am dead

III. As life starts to fade
and dusk turns to night
As we end our charade
and we give up the fight
We say our goodbyes
and we gulp down a shot
We laugh at our lives
we untangle the knot
Then, as the string we are tied to does break
we fall to our death and we never awake

IV. Dark and alone in the cold and dry earth
Worms eat my flesh and devour my girth
Can it be that the dead in the grave get no rest?
Can it be that I died, and I still am depressed?

V. The ocean is rippling, the sun's shining brightly
Birds sing and chirp and the breeze whistles lightly
What a beautiful day to have breakfast in bed
What a beautiful day. It's just too bad I'm dead.

This morning I crossed the street.
Unthinking, I stepped off the sidewalk while the light was still red.
I was brought to my senses when I heard the screech of a car two feet away from me.
The driver yelled, “are you crazy?!”
He is right, I know. But I wonder,
Does the driver realize that for the next few hours I will be walking around with a lump in my throat, with tears just behind my eyes?
It is an immaturity, I know. But sometimes, hours later, I will ask myself, “why am I sad?”
And I will think back and remember the driver’s face, and how wrong I was.
Sometimes it’s someone I love.
They will say something with the best intentions, but I will cry when I get home, because I love them, and I value their opinion.
I wonder, is everyone as sensitive as I am?
Are we billions of vulnerable, hurt people, forced to pretend that nothing affects us?
I don’t know, but I’ll see y’all soon. The lump in my throat is getting thicker, and I’m going to the bathroom.

Many, many years ago, Life, Death, and Man lived harmoniously alongside each other. They ate, drank, and laughed together. Until one day, Death grew jealous of Man's abundant Joy, and so at night, while the others were asleep, Death murdered Man and robbed him of his joy. Of course, Death was banished from the Earth, and Life fell in love with Man's son. Man's son was very happy with Life, and soon they were inseparable.
One hot summer day, as the sun prepared to set, Life saw a dark figure approach. He set out toward it, and slowly realized it was Death, only now he was dressed in a black cloak.
"Why have you returned?" asked Life. "What do you desire?"
"I come a long way," Death replied. "I have been made King of Purgatory, and the demons serve me."
"Do you wish to rule over the Earth as well?" said Life angrily. "Do you ****** me as you did Man?"
"Certainly not!" Death affirmed. "I wish to make a simple deal."
"What do you propose?" Life asked suspiciously.
Death smiled. "Let us join forces. Together we shall rob man of Joy, I in the Heavens and you on the Earth, and we shall divide the loot between ourselves!"
Life agreed. That night when Man's son was asleep, Life took his Joy. When he awoke in the morning, he saw that his Joy was gone, and realized that Life had betrayed him. A broken man, he hung himself. Of course, Man had no more Joy in Death than he did in Life. Until today, Man is alone in his pain, haunted by Death and betrayed by Life.