Time is always passing us by,
leaving us high and dry.
Those days we hope and savor,
seem to fly by like pages of a book.

The good times roll on,
while the bad times stick,
like thick-dark molasses,
but even that too passes.

It's a fact of our grand journey,
that time will ravage all our glory,
our days, our by-ways, and every
which way in between as well.

When the play is over,
and the band has ceased,
and the theater has closed,
little of us will hence remain.

It's a thought that can depress,
into a malaise you can't express,
a raging storm of crisis and doubt
that can spiral into something profound.

But. One thing that can be clutched to,
is a simple fact as true as true.
While time can take so much of us,
our hair, our looks, our medals.

It can leave us old, withered, and grey.
hardly able to remember our names.
or what we've accomplished or did,
but time cannot remove one thing alone.

The moments that shape our souls,
those feelings that strike us deep,
even if the memory doesn't remain,
the sensation remains still in our brain.

That's why it matters most of all,
that we cherish and value those
special moments that can't be
thrown out like week-old garbage.

Take just a moment out of every day,
and think about the times you loved
most and why they mattered so.
Take a picture inside and develop it.

Foster it in the garden of your mind,
so that when we all bid adieu
for that final, fear-filled farewell,
we will leave behind just one moment.

Can't connect,
faces look strange,
out of place,
out of time.

Without rhyme,
no reason,
like tall walls,
between us.

These feelings,
so bizarre,
life so far,
can't connect.

They say good fences make good neighbors,
but the best fences are often our labors.

Those things which pull and keep up apart,
our fears and insecurities preventing a start.

My girl's name is Susan,
she's sweet yet sassy,
she's fun but classy,
smart, ****, never apart,
for 5 long, strong years.
She's a paralegal,
with a pair of legs,
that go on for days.
Bragging isn't my nature,
but I won't lie either.

Tie the knot, not yet,
though the talk has come up,
but we always push it back,
that's a game we don't play.
We've been happy as hell,
always smiling wide,
through the good and bad,
but lately, I think that
things are getting stale.

Like the air in a musty room,
where the AC's been off
and the doors were shut.
Where no one's come in
for years if not more.

It hits you when you step in,
and that's what I'm feeling
like we've met our due date,
like we're past our expiration,
moldy, rotten, and pungent,
a train past its destination.

I don't know what words I ought to say,
I don't know if she's feeling the same way,
or if it's just me, and that's what kills me.
I don't wish to break her heart,
but I think we need to be us, apart.

And you know it isn't her fault,
she's been greater than great,
helped me find myself along the path,
helped me figure who I am,
and she's loved me fully and truly.

It's probably just me being a *****,
never was I one to be content,
needing something new and flashy,
to replace the old and weary.
I want to say this is different, somehow,
but I'd be lying if I said I really know.

Messing up a good thing would be foolish,
cause I know we still have fun when we're out,
and I still care deep down about her.
Idiots always say 'let's be friends', when this happens,
but I really don't want us to lose what we had.

But lying to myself is prolonging the pain,
when our hands clasp, I just don't feel it.
I can't feel something that's just not there.
The gods above couldn't tell how or why,
but whatever once was is there no more.

So one way if not the other,
I'll have to figure out how I'll do this,
even if it pains her bad, like it might,
honesty is always the best, so they say.
I guess I'll see for myself the truth.

She's a shining star, this I know,
but I know I got to let her go.
So she can be the light of
someone else's night-sky.

I'm dreaming of a malibu sunrise,
of days spent in the high-rise,
where the food is filling,
and the drink flows freely.

Where cares, like clouds,
float on the train of the sky,
where the sun shines bright,
and the ocean breathes salty.

I've worked dank, dreary hours,
in a dark and dreary city,
with dim and dreary people,
and I deserve something more.

I desire my malibu sunrise,
where folks treat you well,
where men are friendly,
where women are lovely.

Where dreams, like dogs,
bound along your side,
easy to meet and play,
easy to hold and touch.

What I want is time
to recline downward,
get comfortable,
and truly relax.

With a popcorn-book
and a daiquiri in hand,
my eyes can close and
see my malibu sunrise.

This one is for all those people in life,
who deal with those who give them crap.
Those special, special souls truly deserve
a song of sorts composed just for them.

A song of disdain, a song to complain,
about every ****, clod, and bully one
will ever meet in this thing called life.
This one is for the scalliwags.

We all got someone like that to deal with,
someone who hates on every thing you do,
from the way you look, to the way you comb
your hair, and the way you walk, the way you talk,
and everything in between just because you're you.

It ain't right, and it ain't fair that you gotta deal
with fools like that but it's just one of those facts
when you're playing the game. When you out there
stylin' and profilin', there's bound to be people
jealous and mad because they ain't you.

Allow me to provide a most germane example,
I once knew a fellow named Michael
who used to bug me every single day
in every imaginable petty way.

Dude would always have something smart
to say, like he was some kind of stand-up.
It ****** me off the way he hung around like VD,
and smelled worse than a rotten roach.
I always wondered what the hell I did
that made him despise me so strongly.

But one day, a friend of his filled me in,
Mikey was jealous of my name, my game,
the fact I was so happy and successful,
from crown to sole, I was good as gold.
While he couldn't get a date if he had
a calendar or hold a job if he glued it to
his hands. So the fact that I was me
was enough to make him wanna hate me.

It was pitiable in one way, knowing
he was so down on his luck, and so
pathetic. But, deep down, I couldn't
help but wanna laugh at the clown.
Tears of a clown, they say, but
this time, they were my tears rolling.

One day, I told him thusly,
my man, I used to find you abhorring,
but now I just find you a-boring.
Leave me alone, and try to make
some friends. Maybe you won't be
so empty inside then, my friend.

Now that really got the ***** going,
he was like a little teapot, ready to blow,
he screamed and he cussed, and I just
kept on grinning, showing my pearly whites.
Then he took a swing at somebody,
and then I knocked his *** out clean,
and walked away, feeling that sheen.

So, my good man, commit that to memory.
Haters hate because they hate their lives,
and deep down, they hate themselves.
Don't let their bitter spite affect you,
just waltz on by them, doing you,
and that'll be the best pain of all.

One cannot underestimate the importance of conviction.

This is a creed to which I always have found truth,
it guides me along my chosen path, quite nicely.
Why is it so true, you may ask? The answer is simple.
Conviction is the salesman of deception.

When you have conviction in the words you say,
the majority of people will believe your every way.
You can sell steaks to vegetarians, milk to vegans,
welfare to conservatives, and to conservationists, fracking.

More often than not, people do not, in truth, care
about things like honesty and nobility, and other 'tys.
They desire the things they want to hear, the comfort
of a beautiful, loving lie whispered in their ear.

If you would, perchance, inquire an example,
consider a family I met on a trip in Iowa.
Through simple conviction of my words,
I convinced them I needed a brain transplant.

Little did their feeble minds make the connection,
a transplant of sorts did indeed occur then.
But not from brain to brain was this operation,
it was from their weighty wallet to mine.

Believe you me, conviction is the key to all.
So, if you wish to make the skies rain for you
practice your speech, bellow your voice,
gesticulate your motions, mind your expressions.

This last tip, of this is most import, is to believe.
Believe in the words you know to be false,
as if they were the last words your mother ever said,
and the common, simple man will you make believe.

Now, you perhaps may be questioning my creed,
whether or not it is truly 'right' to make pockets bleed.
Dispose your silly questions of morality petty,
but if it comforts your bleeding heart, then consider this.

As I said, people do not want to hear the truth.
It is a poison to the ears, and a toxin to the heart,
it can pain one ceaselessly with grief ever pouring
like some sort of grim faucet of running tears.

The truth stings worst, and people like ourselves,
we are the doctors of deceptions who prescribe
placebos that comfort and heal those emotional wounds.
Like a comforting static, we tell them what they want to hear.

Luckily for men such as myself, the line between telling
and selling is thinner than ice. All it takes is some
faint hint of manipulation, along with a good dose
of conviction, and the mark is had, the sale is made.

So when you find yourself feeling somehow guilty,
just remember that what we provide is a noble service.
And if you, still, feel the pangs of shame stabbing you,
just stop and check your pocket stabbing you with wealth.

There is but one warning I would be most remiss,
if I were to not dispense, and you're the fool, if you miss.
There exists a certain breed of people who will see
through your pretty words and sweet deception.

They are the minority of those who seek Truth,
that fleeting fool, and will try to debunk you through.
When placed as equals, Truth will always defeat Lie,
but this, do not fear, for we possess a certain weapon.

We possess a strength in numbers, that mob mentality.
If a job well you've done, then you should have a flock
to fight their logic with loudness, to strike their honesty with hate,
to stab their reason with rakes, to slice their knowing with noise.

If all goes according to the stated plan of attack,
then you should not have to fight or argue at all,
to dismiss those pesky gnats of truth who would
try and illumine our vile fraudulence clear.

And so, we are free to continue leading and deceiving,
the very ones who for us they fight at our side.
It is an agreeable arrangement we have found,
and one that you will soon enough warm up to.

I know this will be a phrase I have repeated,
but it is a most mighty maxim that bears to be said.
Never underestimate the importance of conviction,
when you seeks to practice the art of deception.

Ever since I was young,
I dreamed a prince would come,
and take me away from my life
of boredom and weariness.

I always wanted someone perfect,
someone on a white steed, and a
kind heart who'd love me forever.
Yet, I never knew what forever was,
nor did I know what love really was.

And so I always found myself,
in a state of perpetual longing.

I thought it was the end of a novel,
the closing of every drama and play,
it wasn't a thing that you felt or were,
it was instead an event that happened
when you somehow earned it.

Now that I have grown and grown,
I find it impossible to find that goal.
No one I meet fits my bill.
Not handsome enough, not
strong enough, not gallant enough.

Not perfect enough for me.
They all have awful flaws,
not like the books I read at all.
They complain, they burp, they fight,
and not alone for my love.

It's so strange, and so bizarre.
I can't connect with anyone
who I know will take away me
from my dreadful life into a
world of pure imagination.

And so I find myself again
in a state of listlessly wanting.

Is it something wrong with me,
am I not pretty enough to win love?
The fair maidens in those books I've read,
and those films I've cried over are always
so lovely and well-dressed, from toe to head.

It just doesn't seem fair
that I should be so lost and lonely.
I want love too, and don't I deserve it?
I think and I ponder, and I think and I wonder,
and yet cannot come to one true answer.

And so I find myself again
in a state of restlessly pondering.

Would I know what to do with love,
if I did earn it somehow? I've
never had a lover all my own.
As far as I have read and studied,
all they do is kiss and declare their passion.

It certainly sounds nice, I admit,
but what comes after that, I wonder,
well, they get married, I assume,
but what comes next then, I ponder.
What would I do also comes to mind.

Perhaps that is the problem then.
Because it seems so easier to wait
and think about what could be,
and what would be to have love,
rather than going out and actually
finding someone you can truly love.

For so long, I have fantasized, and
let my mind fall into flights of fancy,
of horses and knights, and white
picket fences and all manner of whimsy
Without deciding what I truly wanted,
and who I truly wanted for me.

Actually meeting a person I could love
was too hard and too fraught with fright,
so I found reasons to hide behind lies,
and set my standards impossibly high,
so no person would ever make me happy,
and I would never have to try hard
and risk the fear of falling apart.

I put the very thought of falling
in love onto some holy pedestal,
let it fester as some high ideal,
without ever stopping to consider,
what love in of itself actually means.

As I continue to speculate,
I realize I don't know that answer.
But now that I do know what
was preventing me from climbing
that summit before, I can now
go and find out for myself, and myself alone
the answer to that one immutable truth.

No more will I find myself
in a state of perpetual longing.

I am becoming something more,
something better than I was before.
I am ascending above, to a place
few have ever happened to reach.

The me that once you knew
is no longer the me that is
here now. He is here to stay
forever, and ever, and evermore.

I had to **** the coward I used to be,
so that I could ascend and become
the man you see before you now.
Had to rip that ******* in two.

You may want to turn and run,
since you fear what you can't understand,
but my words are true when I tell you
that the me that I am now is the best me.

The me of days past was fraught with fear,
and let the world at large push him around,
This brand new, shiny me that you now see
is a person who's not afraid to proudly be.

Now I am loud, and I am proud,
not afraid to push back when pushed,
not afraid to yell and scream at those
who dare to stand in my way

You can call me scary and scream,
you can call me strange and walk away,
but realize that this me is something higher,
a being that has found the means to ascension.

I find myself rotting away,
into something different,
something stranger still,
something worse than,
what I once was.
I am descending into
a deep, dark depth,
and I don't know,
if I can find my way
back to the surface,
or if I even want to.

these demons they haunting me,
they ******* won't stop bugging me,
they screaming in my ear, 'do it now'.
won't leave me alone, won't leave me alone,
why won't everyone just leave me the **** alone?

****, what am I saying? Am I ******* stupid?
I don't wanna be alone, this loneliness drives me mad,
but I push them away, pushing people away,
cause why? Cause I'm angry, cause I'm mad?
What the **** does it matter, why do I care?
Why am I this way, so weird and insecure?
When I look in that mirror, and I see that
face looking back at me, I just want to *******
grab it and slit its ******* throat.
Why am I so ugly? I don't ******* know.

these demons they haunting me,
they keep on stalking me, day and night,
they keep on leading me astray, oh,
won't I ever find my way back to where I was.
They won't let me alone, can't you feel my plight?
why do they do these things to me, why won't
they just leave me alone?

Demons, are they real, the **** should I know?
they may just be something sick like my head,
something dark and twisted brought to life,
by these worries and these fears that I made up my mind.
whether they be real or just ******* fake,
I know they make me wanna curl up and die.

these demons they haunting me,
in my dreams, they stopping me,
won't let me be, won't leave me alone,
won't let me be the person I know I can be,
won't let me be free to be what I know I can be.

And when I set my mind to racing,
I can feel my arteries thumping, and my heart pacing.
I'm gonna need a ******* pacemaker, at this rate,
cause all these fears and these worries going to build,
and one of these days, I'm gonna ******* blow,
all over everything and everyone, and y'all
be left to pick up the pieces of my broken soul.

these demons they haunting me,
I can hear those ******* laughing now,
at me and my self-conscious bull-****,
knowing that all this is just another ego-stroke
as I feel sorry for myself and wait to be comforted
by those people that want to call me their friends,
but really, I just seem them as means to ends.

Call me corrupt, or just call me a ****,
but I know that machiavellian ****,
my means are always justified by my ends,
know that I'm always right, even when I know
that I'm wrong, I keep on fighting like it's a war,
and I'm the ******* 5-star general,
that earth-rattling, world shaker who
the universe rightly revolves around
I ain't no Prince, I'm the ******* King!

these demons they haunting me,
they egging me on, telling me I'm right,
even when I'm wronger than wrong.
I know it's wrong, but it feels so good,
and I can't find it in me to argue
when the promise of righteousness feels so good.

And so I keep on playing the game,
arguing and fighting over petty ****,
desperate to prove my point like it matters,
feeling that high when I prove someone wrong,
it fills me, it thrills me, it's like a spine-chiller.
It's a ******* drug and you, the dealer,
but the way I'm feeling, like a high-wheeler.
I won't complain or say things should be different.

these demons they haunting me,
I can hear their ***** singing along,
I can hear their voices ringing real soft,
it sounds so sweet, but I got this feeling
deep down that maybe it ain't as good
as it sounds and there's something deeper lurking.

All it takes is one word alone, and I'm
shattered like broken glass, like I just got
put out on my fat ***. Cause I know I'm
fat and ******* ugly, you don't got to remind me,
mirror, I'd rather hide the truth.
And just like that the circle is running again,
like it's done time and time again.
A cycle of loathing, then a cycle of loving,
then a cycle of loathing, a cycle of loving.

these demons they haunting me,
not even caring that I'm onto them,
and those games they play, they just
keep on grinning, keep on sinning,
these jackals, they wanna bleed me dry,
they wanna consume, wanna swallow my soul,
like an anaconda, they wanna swallow me whole
why won't they just leave me alone,
so I can find some kind of inner peace?

Instead I just keep on rolling on that
hill like I was Sisyphus, and my ego's
the boulder, and every time I push it up,
I know it's gonna come down even stronger
It's like I gotta just deal with the fact
that when I'm happy, the sadness'll
strike about 10 times harder than it ought to,
like it was giving me a special '*******'.

these demons they haunting me,
I think they ******* hate me, but
who can really blame them? I hate
me too, and the ******* I can be,
the ******* I can be, the ***** I can be
when I let my jealousy get the best of me,
treating my friends like they out to get me,
Sometimes when I think back on how I act,
I just want to kick my own *** just to teach
me a lesson.

I try to be good, and decent, and think good,
and think decent, but I can't find it in me
to feel that heart beat-beating for me,
I just look in the mirror and I hate what I see,
I hate what's there, and knowing I'm stuck where I am.
Why I gotta be me? Why can't I be you, or someone
new or someone better? Or just a person who I know
is better than me? Smarter than me, nicer than me?
Kinder than me, prettier than me?
Why I gotta be stuck in this ugly *** ******* shell?

these demons they haunting me,
they taunting me like *******,
I don't know if it's in my head,
my mind playing those tricks on me,
or if they're really there to steal my soul,
but I know they keep tripping me either way,
I think I hate them more than I hate me,
and that's something to be said since I despise me.
They test me, they trick me, they want to end me,
and all I want is for them to get off my throne.
My throne of **** and wallowed pride, that's all mine,
for better or worse, I still want to claim it as mine.
Everyone keeps on testing me lately, human contact,
and I just want to be left the **** alone.
Can't everyone just leave me the **** alone?

Demons, who the hell am I kidding?
Satan himself knows I'm full of ****,
I'm just using them as an excuse to justify,
the kind of guy I am deep down, and to victimize
myself so I can throw out a line for sympathy,
and get that ego-stroke needed to get back in line,
and start that same wicked cycle back again,
hell, that's what all this is, just another me whining,
and complaining before I get high on me again,
at least that's what I say to myself to feel like I win

A question, a query for you,
and a word for every writer
who ever penned a poem or
who wrote a rhyme, if you'll
permit me the time to ask.

Why do you write?

What compels you to put
pen to paper, put pencil
to parcel in such a way?
What drives you to do
these things or to
write these words that
may never be read?

It's a query, a quandary
that'll get a hundred
answers depending on
who you choose to ask,
but certain themes
will show their faces.

Whether it's to outpour pain,
or to try and bring joy,
a kind of temporary glee,
to someone who might need it,
or just as a way to tell
a story of the heart or mind,
you'll find a connecting bind.

People who write want to invoke.
They want to invoke emotions,
or invoke thoughts in minds,
or invoke inspiration in souls,
or invoke true love in heart.
The goal is to invoke, and
to connect with the words one writes.
It's an impulse universal,
a goal of us creatures social.

I know that would be my answer,
if I asked myself the same.
If just one word out of one poem
out of the hundreds to be written
could connect to just one person
in the entire world and inspire
them to write something greater
than I could ever hope to conspire,
then I'd know that I had made it,
and that I could retire and die young,
cause through the words I wrote,
I'd possess a life eternal.

For to write is to invoke is to connect is to inspire is to live,
is to be human.

Living with these demons in me,
these monsters keep on haunting me,
they go by many names, and wear
many faces as they try and test me.
They want to try and get the best
of me, they competing for my soul,
like it were a game of chess,
but this one ghoul, he just
likes to rage and roar and
ravage and rake me across the coals,
and he calls himself the Rage.

In my dreams, I seen him barking,
something like a man, but something
more still. He's tall as hell,
skin red like the raging fire,
eyes burning with rageful desire.
The fiend, he emanates heat from
every pore, just being around him
was like walking in an oven.

In this dream or maybe a vision,
I watched him for a while, before
he spotted me. He stood still like
a stone statue, not making a sound
or moving a muscle, but I could feel.
I could feel and sense that anger boiling,
like a dormant volcano rumbling, or
a teapot steaming about to blow over.

As far as I could tell, nothing had
made him angry, hell, he was just
standing there like a *****.
Just looking at him was making me
angry too. Something in his face,
the way of his gait, or something.
I couldn't begin to explain it,
but trust me, when I say I wanted
to give him something to be mad about.

I guess the anger got the best of me,
cause without even thinking, I just did,
my muscles clenched, and my teeth did grind,
and that was all that he needed to spot me.
Quicker than a neck snap, his head turned
back as he finally saw me staring him down.

For a minute, he just looked at me
and I looked back at him, both of
us with an expression that colored us red.

Then. He screamed.

He screamed an awful, abominable scream
that rang in my ears and made me recoil,
holding my head in my hands, something
so ugly uttered out of his mouth.
I could hardly look or hear or even think
straight anymore, but I barely saw the
Rage coming for me, running wildly.

Something was keeping my feet grounded,
like some kind of mental quicksand,
I couldn't run or fight or defend,
all I could was scream from within.
I screamed, as he was screaming, and
then something hit me right as he was
about to.

I woke up screaming, but soon stopped.
My skin was sweating, but not in cold ones,
just hot and grimy and smelly, like
I had just ran a marathon or something.
It didn't make no sense, I had just
been sleeping in my bed, but then.

I realized it. The Rage lived within
me. He was me, just another me that
made the me up that you all see.
Every flash of anger, every urge to hurt
every time I wanted to choke or punch
or kick or slap or yell or scream
someone or something, that was The Rage.
Even those days when I could hardly feel
a thing, that demon was still deep in me,
dormant yet dooming and downing me still.

I didn't sleep for the rest of the night.

The problem with faith, scratch that,
MY problem with faith, I guess I'd say,
it's the attitude, the manner of the people
who have it. Now, let me preface this,
I don't speak to all people of faith, cause
I know some ain't this way, but I know
people, and am friends with those who are.
And that is who I speak to.

Now I don't mind the faithful who
don't shout it out loud, or wave it
like a flag-bearer. Those who believe,
those who dream, and keep to themselves,
that's a faith that I can respect, won't shelf.
Even if it's not for me, I won't tell them
that they wrong for what they think.
Yet, there are others who trouble me so.

Certain people of faith, they wear it like
a sticker, or a badge of honor, and sure,
maybe it's something to be proud of,
something to take joy or glee in,
but whether they know it or don't,
it carries an implication I can't ignore.

Their faith is a way of lording over you,
a way they can say, "I'm better than you".
Even with the best of intentions they may have,
a desire to make you as good as they feel,
it's still just a wall that divides me and them.

Or, rather, a fence that they can sit on,
and still be above me, feeling so self-superior.
It leaves me feeling weak and depressed,
to feel like my friends think they're so much better,
just because they believe in a higher power
in something above that I just don't share.

They always want to try and preach to me,
try and convert me, like I'm just a check
to be marked, a mark to be had, I draw
that line in the sand. I don't want to hear
it, even if they mean well, but still, they continue.
And so I find myself forced to yell, and like that,
I'm the bad guy who needs to apologize
instead of the victim who had been forced upon.

Perhaps they can't really be blamed
for being this way, for thinking this way.
As far as they see it, they just sharing the message,
spreading gospel for the betterment of all.
They want me, and people like me, to join 'em above,
to live that life immortal, life immemorial .

But I can't buy, just because they selling,
I can't take what they be giving because
it don't work for me, it don't jive with me.
It's not a system I can comply with, beliefs
that I can fly with. I respect the faithful,
and the good that it lets them do, but
I don't respect the way they shove
it down my throat like a bad pill.

It's something too tough to swallow
even with a glass of water to wash it down,
it makes me angry and want to shout.
Maybe that's why I get so defensive when
I feel like I'm being preached to.
Because deep down, it feels like an excuse to
be talked down to, and I just have to take it,
or else I'm heinous, speaking heresy, blasphemy,
or just being plain disrespectful to them.

Now, faith folk, don't get up in arms,
don't raise your red cups up in anger.

Don't take this as a condemnation,
or some kind of vilification,
when really it's just conjugation,
or, rather, venting my frustration.

These demons inside of me
don't leave me alone,
or give me a break,
the only break they want
is the break of my soul.

They're always at my neck,
behind my back, waiting,
for a moment when I slip
and let them in to win.
I see 'em when I wake,
walk, but when I'm dreaming
is when they the most active.
The one I met last was a doozy,
a lady known as the Sorrow.

Now sadness comes in many forms,
loud and moaning, or low
and groaning, and all facets
in between. The Sorrow I met
had a low, choking sob
that came from the throat.

That was what I first sensed,
before I spotted any visual.
As I explored the dream-domain,
I found nothing of note,
in that blue-tinted room
of white squared tiles.

It was a clean space, yes,
but it was more sterile than
anything and with nothing to show,
it felt like emptiness given form.

So it didn't take me long
to track that weeping sound,
and find the only other figure
present within the mess of tiles,
a humanesque form lying on
the cold, featureless ground.

She was crying to herself,
so I couldn't see her features,
and her hair covered her too,
like some kind of shroud from
the world and its sadness.

What I could spot was a skin
that was tinted blue, lightly
so and partially faded too.
Her clothes were long and modest,
Everything about her seemed
to project an image of a cocoon,
a cover to hide under from the
ways of our world, weighing her down.

I felt an awful pity for the woman,
never was I one to take joy in
others pain or misery. This girl
was a stranger, but stranger, I
felt an empathy towards her.

Even though I stood right above,
and had been watching for a bit,
she didn't seem to know I was there.
I called to her, without a name to call,
and still, she ignored me, still weeping.
Uneasy I did feel, wondering what
I should do or if I should just go.
Who was I to bother her in this state?

I didn't even know how I'd help,
it's not like I was an expert on grief,
but still, I wanted to give her relief.
So I lightly poked down at her shoulder,
hoping to at last her attention.

After a few moments, she moved,
at least acknowledging my action.
She seemed surprised and stunned,
and so it took her a minute to respond.
Slowly she switched her head up to me.
She slipped her hands from her face,
and moved her hair out as well,
finally removing that natural veil.

For a moment, I was the one stunned.
Seeing her face clear, now, I was
shocked. Her face was actually my face,
my features her features. Except she
wore an expression of unenviable sadness.
A misery that belied the weight of
her sorrow. It was a sorrow at once
I could feel.

For it was my sorrow as well. All
of life's weights crushed onto me
at that moment, all of the pain,
all of the misfortune that I had
to deal with and get over came back
all at once with great fury and force.

Every time I ever cried out,
or felt like all I could do was
be miserable and alone, or
that all my life's goals would
amount to nothing and I'd die,
not a blip on anyone's radar.

That was what fueled the Sorrow,
what gave her life and form,
what motivated her mission
of making me feel as empty
as she felt, as forlorn as she was.

Like true sorrow, it stopped me.
I could no longer move, these rocks
keeping me grounded much like her.
Soon, I was crying just like her.

Two mirror images of misery,
connected and reflected side-by-side.

When I finally awoke from the vision,
tears had stained my pillow moist.

Where did you go,
leaving me so low?
One day you were here,
and now you are gone.
Why did you leave,
and when will you return?

Didn't we have fun?
Don't you recall those
warm summer mornings
spent together with
a toast and a tea?

Or those nights we spent
under the covers, living
like lovers, with no one
watching or wondering?

Or those times you
sat and read Joyce
while I listened to
the sound of your voice?

You always wanted to write,
see, I remember it like it
were yesterday. I wasn't
one for reading, but I
always read your stories.

Weren't we happy?
I know I was.
Didn't you agree,
or did I not notice
the way you really felt?

When I was smiling,
I never saw your
sadness or regret.
Was it there plainly?
Or did you hide it
like a cursed treasure?

I loved you so,
so where did you go?

Is it a place for my eyes,
a place that I can find you?
Is it our place, under
that old oak tree?
Or is it somewhere far
and away from me?
A place you had left behind.

Did you really hate me so,
that you had to run away
without saying a word?
A goodbye or a letter,
a picture or a note,
something would have
been nice to scribble down
in the notebook of my mind.

At least I'd know then,
what I did wrong, and
why you left me alone.
Instead I'm left asking,
where did you go?

I can't deny or dismiss,
this feeling of loneliness,
or the way it creeps in,
when I try to go to sleep.

Shadows on the wall,
shadows down the hall,
feels like I'm always alone,
and it's all I've ever known.

Even when I'm with friends,
I cannot seem to make amends,
with the pain that I feel inside,
no matter how hard I try to hide.

Loneliness seems to affect
me, causing a disconnect,
between my friends and me,
it's something they can't see.

Something they can't get,
not that I blame them yet,
the sadness is still there,
this is me laying it bare.

It's just too much to bear,
when it's like they don't care.
It's like I'm a man on Mars,
and they're out among the stars.

We can't connect or relate,
they're all living lives great,
while I'm struggling to keep up,
like some kind of sick keep-away.

Why did they leave me here,
Isolated, crying out in fear?
Did I deserve this horrid fate,
with all this grief on my plate?

Forced to face the masses bare,
forced to feel the crowd's stare,
it's all more than I can take,
an awful feeling I can't shake.

I never did feel more alone,
then among a crowd on my own,
Like an ant among anteaters,
a platoon of people-eaters.

It's hard to love,
hard to trust,
hard to open up,
hard to stay true.

To love is to say, "I give of myself fully",
the good and the bad, the mad and the sad,
the peaks and cliffs, and the valleys and nadirs,
all of that, and more. It says, "I trust you,
and believe you can take it all without judging".

It's like writing down all of you into a book,
and giving it to someone for them to read.
It's not something you would give to anyone,
so imagine that as the gift of your love.

It's opening yourself to pain and rejection,
and wishing and hoping that you won't be let
down, even when it's happened again and again.
It takes more courage than the bravest knight,
to confess your feelings to someone you love.

It's easier to just keep your feelings sealed,
never to tell your honest heart's message,
for fear of feeling failure yet again.
Or easier still to harden your heart's armor,
so that you can never love and never be hurt.

But, please, don't. To love and to be loved
is the most wonderful feeling in all the world,
this I can say to be true. If ever you find,
a lover you love true, then please confess.
Let them know, and don't waste time worrying,
or else they will find someone else who wasn't fearful.

Such was my fate, and so I stay here, sorrowful.
A knight of resignation who couldn't court his princess.

Oh, what I'd do for a bear best friend.
He'd be big and cute and cuddly,
and friendly and huggly, and he'd cheer me
when I was sad, and make me laugh
with his big, bear belly when I was down.

I'd want a big, brown bear buddy,
who stood about 10 foot tall
and wouldn't let big, bad bullies
beat me up and make me feel sad.

We could play videogames together,
and eat lots of snacks and candy,
and I wouldn't mind when he ate
more than me. After all, he's a big bear,
who needs to fill his tummy.

He'd let me ride on his back,
and take me to all kinds of places,
like up a tree, or in a cave, but
I wouldn't be scared of bats or rats,
since he'd be there to protect me.

And I'd show him stuff too,
like my prized marble collection,
or the art I did for my class that
the teacher didn't really like, but
I know he'd love it just 'cause I made it.

He'd be nice and polite, but also
fun and cool, and just the best!
Oh, what fun it would be to
have my very own best bear buddy.

Every thought that has ever been thought,
has been said in one form or another.
We have cliches just to describe cliches.
"There is nothing new under the sun".

It is a challenge to say anything new,
or to express any truly original idea.
And likely, if you could do just that,
it would hold little relevance or worth.

"I love you like lamps love electricity".
Sure, no one has likely ever said this,
but what does it mean? What wit is
expressed herein? See what I mean?

So it is the storyteller's quest eternal,
to find the words to express the thoughts
that will touch a person's open heart,
and cause them to feel feelings unfelt.

How can they fulfill this noble duty,
when cliches are so prevalent, and
to be truly original is to be nonsensical,
and life is like a box of chocolates?

It's not an easy question to answer,
but I have pondered and thought,
and here is what I found myself thinking.
The storyteller's plight can be solved.

They must find a rightful balance,
between novelty and well-worn tradition.
The trick of the tale is to say something old
in a unique and distinctive way.

For what every person has is their own voice,
that is something that cannot be duplicated.
The trick is not to say a hundred different things,
but rather, say one thing in a hundred ways.

Each and every person can put their own spin
on those well-worn homilies, or bland bromides,
to make them new and exciting once more,
and speak to that thing called the human condition.

I find myself wondering,
when We became Me?
We were pretty neat,
I'd like to think, at least.

Maybe that was just Me,
and my wishful thinking.
I wished on a star for you,
and maybe that was silly.

Wishes are silly things,
I suppose. Just because
you wish it to be, does
not make it so.

But I know We had fun
while we lasted, and
maybe that's enough for
you. A quick fling.

Don't take that as a jab.
You're free to do as you
wish and with who you want,
but I don't have to agree.

For I wanted more.
I wanted you and
I wanted us to be We,
and yet, I am just Me.

Anger is power,
and don't let them
tell you otherwise.

Anger is action,
allowing you to
to advance onward.

Anger is change,
the force that
moves the world.

Anger is effective,
as long as you
don't let it control.

Anger is a pill,
helpful in doses,
yet easily abused.

Anger is pain,
when it lashes out
recklessly and wild

Anger is natural
and not to be feared,
when you take the wheel.

The Roamer roams on,
without thought or mind,
he is free and on his own,
but at what cost?

He roams in the day,
walking the streets,
shabbily dressed, and
confused for a vagrant.

He roams in the night
boots trampling the mud,
of a slick rain-struck sidewalk,
with no direction or guide.

He roams from city to city,
staying for just a few weeks,
then he's off again to
roam to another city.

He roams the woods,
when he gets bored
with the cities and lights,
and the noise and people.

He roams the fields,
observing the sights,
utterly alone with
his thoughts as company.

He roams the world,
roaming far and wide,
searching for something,
he just can't find.

He roams endlessly,
evermore for something
more, yet will he lose
himself in the process?

The Roamer is a nomad,
searching for a place,
for a people who he
can call his home.

You were my starlight,
like a shining sirius,
illumining my empty voids,
and filling me with light.

You gave me form,
you gave me shape,
you made me more
than just dark matter.
You made me matter.

You were so bright,
beaming with light,
like Castor to Pollux,
I could see you shine
from the depths of space

All those years we had,
all those laughs we made,
all those suns we watched
cool and slowly fade away.

I never thought that
it could happen to you,
never thought you
would leave me,
like a supernova.
One day here,
and the next, gone.

So I am left alone,
left in my darkness,
like a supermassive
black hole.

Sometimes, it
feels like we
are worlds
apart.

Like from Mercury
to Neptune, we
just can't seem
to agree on anything

Like we just are
on different axes,
on different planets,
in different galaxies.

It's frustrating me
to no end, to know
we can't connect.

You always have
something smart to say,
and then I jab back,
and here we are,
fighting again.

What keeps us apart
like ships sailing
in opposite directions?
I know we can find
it in us to make things work.

If you feed the fire with coal,
I'll man this captain's wheel,
and my resolve I will steel.
We will conquer this stormy sea.

Choices are important.

The things we do,
the words we speak,
the thoughts we think,
they each define us.

But one bit to consider,
as our choices shape us,
at what point are we
the ones in control?

We like to think we
are free to do whatever
our hearts desire, that
we could scream to the
heavens above, just
because it was our life
and we could live it
however we pleased.

But is that really true?

Or is our idea of freedom
just another form of control?
Rarely do people genuinely
do things outside their
normal, every-day routine.

They get up, they eat,
they wash, they go to work,
they work, they go home,
they sleep, so the circle spins.

Even when they get time
to be on their own, what
do they do? They eat,
they drink, they dance,
they watch their tv,
they follow their routine.

The choices they made,
those things that seemed
so slight back in their early years
proved to be fundamental in
deciding who and what they'd be
at this current spot in time.

We all make choices,
but in the end, our choices make us.

Ever since I can remember,
these slugs been hounding me,
these wheelers, these dealers,
like drug dealers, they peddling
they lies to try and hypnotise
young minds like mines but you
gotta remember what they tell
you's real and what's really real
is two totally different reals.

Those maggots they try and sell you
on some pie in the sky, just another lie
another fantasy, another trap to
keep you and yours down in the gutters.

They tell you you ain't pretty enough or,
that you ain't smart enough, or you
ain't good enough as you are, and that
what you need is what they happen to have.
A bottle of pills to cure all your ills,
or is it just something to siphon your will?

You gotta believe me, man, or lady,
you can't trust those suits who try to buy
your happiness, your love, your self-esteem
like it was some kinda product to buy and sell,
like your worth is some kinda commodity, hell no.
Feel me when I say you're beautiful the way you are.

But those words won't mean a thing until you try
some introspection and realize it for yourself.
Can't nobody, not me, or the suits, tell you
how you're meant to feel, or meant to think.
The only happiness you'll ever find is from within,
and the only love you'll ever find is deep inside.