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.

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.

As the days grow long
And nights shrivel to hours
The feeling of little sunflowers
In the eversinking sunlight
Bloom softly among
Lonely, setting summer skies

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!

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

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?

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.

But where is the place for the people like us?
The artists, the cutters, the solemn observers.
Every INFJ. Every poisoned mind. Every social awkward with so much depth they just might sink.
The ones who have found their soul but are searching for their mind.
The ones who find their mind by losing their marbles.
The misrepresented and misunderstood.
The hurt and the happy.
With a requirement of so much patience and love that no one is willing or able to give.
The ones who make adjustments.
Who hit rock bottom and manage to get back up on their own.
The ones who fall too fast for something out of reach. They end up quietly crashing and burning.
The ones who are living under layers of paint; on their hearts and in their homes. Whose sweetness and innocence are buried somewhere underneath the paint, barely recognizable.
The ones who were born with a fifty year old soul.
Who have a biologically memorized speech that no one will hear; that no one can hear.

I ask you, where will they go, the people like us?