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

The Boxer stands in the ring,
A man who used to be King.
Across stands The Young Lion,  
A man who will be a King.

The Boxer shakes his aged head,
A man who had fists of lead.
Across scoffs The Young Lion,
A man who has fists of lead.

The Boxer sighs, his last fight,
A man who has lost his light.
Across strides The Young Lion,
A man who gleams with light.

The bell rings, and the fight begins.
The Boxer strikes, though he won’t win.
The Lion roars, winning in ten.

The Boxer slumps to the floor,  
A man who can take no more.
Above smiles The Young Lion,
A man who only wants more.

The Boxer smirks as he lay,
A man who knows the way.
Above stands The Young Lion,
A man who knows not the way.

The Boxer leaves, knowing this one thing.
There is always a new and waiting King.

I am the happy bunny.
I hop, and when I hop,
I laugh, and I squeak.
Squeak, Squeak, Squeak, I go!
My little bunny nose
Squinches to and fro.

I am the happy bunny.
I hop, and when I hop,
I am carefree, happy, and full of glee,
When I go hopping on my little tree!
Hop, Hop, Hop, I go! My little bunny legs
Leap to and fro.

I am the happy bunny.
I hop, and when I hop,
I see my master, as he looks at my cage
He smiles, and laughs when I wiggle my ears!
Wiggle, Wiggle, Wiggle, I go! My little bunny ears
Wriggle to and fro.

I love him, and he loves me, and he
Makes me the happiest bunny I could be.

The Outsider stands far away.
Looking at a world not meant for him.
A world, as if from another day.

The Outsider tries to fit in,
Tries to belong, but simply does not.
He is strange, he lacks grace within.  

He has spent years, and years.
Attempting to find a place to be,
And has found only tears, and tears.

He has faced mockery and scorn.
From those who would judge.
He has no one to mourn.

The Outsider sighs, as he gives up the fight.
Seeing no other option or choice,
He retreats into the listless night.

Take your ships and your sailors,
to that island of the sky,
take them all to Avalon,
where the dreamers fly.

The gentle winds breeze,
the voice of a longing lover,
the want of a passing mother.
Take them all to Avalon.

The soul knows not hunger
when stopped in Avalon.
All the treats of the finer,
are common in Avalon.

When others see only sadness,
do not fall for their madness.
The light pours through the trees,
and the people know only glee.

A pristine paradise,
so tranquil and free of vice,
a home for heart and humor.
Bring all your friends to Avalon.

The grass grows glossy green,
the sky shines a cerulean sheen,
the stars sparkle in bright delight,
Avalon welcomes you tonight.

Our appeal is more than real,
so think well in passing for
when you come to Avalon,
you'll never care to leave.

You’re so wonderful, you make me hate myself.
You’re so delightful, you make me cringe and groan.
You’re so marvelous, you make me furious.
You’re so generous, you make me want to die.

I see your smiling face, and frown.
I hear your kindly voice, and cry.
I touch your perfect skin, and sigh.
I watch your refined mien, and retch.

I think myself a good person,
A Decent, Hard-Working fellow.
But whenever I see you,
I only think of myself akin to a wretched rat.
Fit to fight for bits of trash in a rotten dumpster,
And Nothing more.

Why must you be so excellent?
Why must you be so lovely?  
Why must your light shine like diamonds?
Why must my heart be clouded with darkness?
And why must you make me feel so ugly inside?

It’s not your fault, not at all.
But you do this to me, you know.
You tear me to bits, doing nothing at all.
Part of me wishes to love you, head to toe.
The other wants to hate your guts, all and all.

I know not what to do about you.
If there is anything to do.

Should I bare my heart, and tell-all?
Or should I hold it inside, and grin through clenched teeth?

I can’t say.
But I do know this one fact.

You are the essence of peerless perfection, and that is why
I will never be as good as you, no matter how I try.
And so I am left to do little but burn inside your light.

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.

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.

I'm so virtuous, it's practically a sin,
I'm pure of heart, better than all men.
I make Mother Theresa look like a Kuze,
I make Martin Luther look like Adolf ******
I'm so good, I might as well be King,
make 'em bow, make 'em kiss the ring.
But that's the thing about it, man,
I'm such a saint that I don't mind.
I made the angels fall before me in envy,
'Cause they jealous a mere mortal could be so more-than
Lucy himself had to bow his holy head
'cause he knew he weren't the most-loved.
Just look at me, man, you know I got it all,
I'm handsome and smart, and tall as tall.

I make good men look like murderers,
I make murderers look even worse than,
my light shines brighter than bright,
like a light lighter than light.
I make that saint, Peter, look so bad
he be more fit to judge who goes to hell.
Virgil and Dante alike would declare
I was the one true paradiso.
From my crown to my soles,
I'm built like a grand king, and this
earth be my gilded, golden throne.
Ever humble, though, I remain,
not one to doubt where I came from.
or what made me what I be.

I got a girl for every finger on my hand,
and y'all can best believe they know who the man.
Before you say I'm lusting, though, don't judge
I'm such a lover, I can't stick to one honey.
I don't beat 'em or hurt 'em or fuss 'em,
you know I don't yell 'em or cuss' em.
But let's be real, you know I be lovin'
them honies every day of the week.
They know they can't get no better,
cause I'm the greatest man they ever met.

Now some of them haters, they tell you
I got dat gluttony weighing me down,
but the hell do they know, it's not a crime
to enjoy a nice roasted turkey, downed with wine,
then capped with the finest chilled gelato,
along with caviar and baked alaska.
I won't lie to ya, I like to stuff my face,
but you know I always do it with grace.
I use the rarest silver, the flyest china.

And then I hear 'em say, oh man,
that guy is such a miser, oh so greedy,
but they just ain't true, I give to the needy.
Why, just last week, I gave 22 cents to a ***,
but not no more, cause I don't want to hold his hand,
dudes like him gotta stand on they own two feet.
And hey, I donated 5 dollars when the teller,
at the store asked me to, and felt like a saint.
How greedy can a guy like that really be,
even if he owns three benz, four boats, and a mountain goat?
Being wealthy ain't no crime, don't let 'em tell you
otherwise.
They just jealous cause they know I'm the
greatest man they ever gonna meet.

And don't you dare say, brother, that I'm lazy,
that I'm a sloth, cause that just ain't true.
Sure, I like to sit back, and relax, and think
about all those fat stacks I make back-to-back.
So what if I like to sleep in, when you fly like me,
time bows to you, not the other way around.
And hell, I go to work on time, and pay my bills,
and do what I gotta, even if I don't like it.
I get bored, I get listless, restless,
and wonder what the point of it all is,
but really, who among us doesn't?

When I think about those haters, it makes my
**** blood boil, but I ain't wrathful, or spiteful.
No, not one bit. If you want proof consider this.
When this idiot passed me in traffic, I was so
tempted to get a barbed wire bat and brain him,
but I didn't, cause I'm on that run, pacifist.
I'm like a monk, but more peaceful, if that were
possible. I make Gandhi look like Genghis.
Even nuns look at me, and think,
"That brother is one chill dude."

When I take that time to sit and meditate,
I often think about what others got that I ain't.
Like my friend, Charles, and his shinier benz,
it's red and newer, and somehow runs better.
When I think and I think, and I sit, and I
fester, I just want it so bad, that I want
to beat him down, and take it from him, cause
he don't deserve it anyway. A car like that
belongs to a king like me, not that drooling fool.
What was I saying? Oh, yeah, I never envy or
covet other's stuff, because I know it ain't right.
Cause, like I said, I'm the greatest man that ever lived.

Some say that pride comes before a fall,
but hey, Narcissus didn't fall off a cliff.
He turned into a flower, cause he was so ****
pretty. But compared to me, he might as well be
manure. Don't go saying I'mma be falling.
Cause my feet are secure, and my earth grounded.
I'm watching for every crack in the 'walk,
for every bump in that winding road.
I ain't ever gonna fall, ever going down.
I'mma keep on rising, till I'm shoulder-to-shoulder
with the angels on high, and don't say I can't,
cause all y'all know by now who you're talking to,
The greatest man that ever lived, and will ever live.

The Queen of the Diamond,
she of beauty and grace.
she of poise and elegance,
she of ribbon and lace.

The King of the *****,
he of joking and laughter
he of roughness and fun,
he of jacket and leather.

The Queen stood tall,
over her subjects, the
serfs of the schoolyard.
The Barons, Earls, and Counts,
alike tried to garner her favor.

All to no avail, as the Queen
was not interested in their advances.
Or in affairs of the heart altogether.
She was busy with her own lofty goals,
yet, how the countesses talked...

The King was once but a serf,
a simple, silly, joking jester.
But he had a way, and a manner,
an ability to please and to appease,
in ways the nobles could not.

However, all he really was
was a punchline, a tool for laughter.
He longed for more, and then more.
He desired importance, and status,
and not the derision of the clowns.

The Queen graced him with
her royal presence, one spare day.
With his jokes, and jests, and
his knightly sincerity, the King
managed to win her over.

In time, they made an alliance.
A partnership, an agreement,
sealed by a regal kiss. Together,
They won what they both desired.
in spite of what others conspired.

The Queen got some solace from
the nagging hand-maids, her fellow
nobles and others asking when she'd
find herself a sweet suitor, a man.
So that she could focus on her dreams.

The King finally earned respect,
the kind that comes from moving up.
No longer was he just another serf,
he could instead joke and upshow
the smug nobles of the royal court.

Yet as the seasons passed, they came to
realize that little had they in common.
The Queen was studious and stern,
The King was slack and slow at work.
They had fun, but little was earned.

Respect only went so far really,
and the King could feel it was forced,
and the Queen still had to put up with
questions of when they would be wed.
Their struggles were still present.

Camelot would not amaze much longer,
as the King and the Queen would go
their separate paths, amicably as could be.
The Queen realized that only she could
determine her own self-worth.

A lesson that rang true for the King,
as well. Self-respect mattered more,
than 'respect' from others, that can flit,
and flutter. And so, through each other,
The King and Queen got what they needed.

The Unknown Soldier fights for freedom,
Fights for tyranny, fights for God, and
Fights for himself, all in one.

His name, or rank matters not.
The Unknown Soldier can be Private
Or General, a Smith or a Ramirez.

He can stand for the holy light,
Or he can stand for the wicked darkness.
The Unknown Soldier fights regardless.

What matters most is doing what’s told,
Doing his job to his best ability,
And serving his authority as best he can.

Good or bad, evil or righteous,
There are unknown soldiers in each
And every country, each with a family.

So, remember. When you criticize the ‘enemy’,
The Unknown Soldiers are following orders,
Just like you, and just like me.

It's a sheepy love,
making me go 'baa',
as I look on you in awe.
The way you talk,
I can't help but flock to ya..

Your voice is more than a bleat,
it makes me feel complete,
knowing you and I are real.
They can call us sheeple,
but I never cared about them,
so let's meet at the steeple.

It's mad to me to think I
ever doubted or distrusted you.
I must have been like a lost lamb
or a stray sheep searching
when all I ever really wanted
was just to have you, oh ewe.

But what can I say, really,
sheep aren't smarties,
but we make good sweaters,
so won't you hold me close,
like I was your pillow?

Let's have a sheepy love,
the sweetest love of them all.

I want to be a hero,
someone good and true,
someone to spread peace,
and happiness to all.

I want to be a hero,
someone big and strong
who could right the wrongs
of this scary world.

I want to be a hero,
with all the love of
all the people in
every city and town.

I want to be a hero,
a person who could
save the innocent
from the wicked.

I want to be a hero,
admirable and noble,
someone not afraid
to give his life.

I want to be a hero,
who fights villains
and stop crimes
from happening at all.

I want to be a hero,
someone who is a
symbol for others
to admire and trust.

I want to be a hero,
because heroes
are what this world
really needs.

Found on Hollywood Boulevard,
these shining stars of the silver screen,
bigger and better than us normal types.

Flint Magnum, Clint Hudson, and
of course we'd be remiss to miss,
the star, Luke "The Gent" Gable.

A modern day Rat Pack were they,
in films, on shows, even on the radio,
they were all over the place, often together.

Flint Magnum was the leading man
of Deadly Picture, the horror classic,
and countless other scream-scenes.

Clint Hudson played the simple man
the every-man in every rom-com
your mind could ever fathom.

But The Gent was the biggest of them,
leading roles in dramas and thrillers,
and comedies, and even chillers.

Oscars and Tony's and even a few Annie's,
won this shining star. Critics adored him,
and the masses wanted to be him.

It can be said with a grain of truth,
that the pack was best when together.
Whenever they met, magic was made.

Their life's epic finally culminated,
in a 4-hour glory, of action and drama,
it won every award, with praise galore.

Fiery Flint and Careful Clint wrote the yarn,
and played their role fitting, while the Gent
directed and led this star-studded affair.

Citizen Kane could hardly compare,
to the grandeur and scope of this tome,
with it, their reputations forever sealed.

Clint, Flint, and the Gent who favored
a fine hat are the finest fellows of our
and maybe any era of film or culture.

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.

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.

I'm a loser.
That much is true.
I'm a loser.
At all I do.

Throughout the many years,
And through my many tears,
I've found it to be true.
I'm a fool, through and through.

Bitter sadness is my chum.
My poor heart is like stained glass.
Fragile and weak, but alas,
I'm a loser, and I'm ****.

I am ugly, disgusting to the core.
My face revolts and repels, yet cries for more.
To all my friends, I am sure they abhor.
In the end, it only goes to show that

I'm a loser, akin to a mere gnat.
You could slap me, and I wouldn't slap back.
I had it coming, of that I am sure,
Because I'm a loser, and nothing more.

I have longed for love, and affection aplenty.
Yet all I have had is rejections a many.
Of all the women whom I ever came to know,
None alone would think of me as their love, their beau.

My shoulders narrow, my wrists small, my posture slump,
Could it be held against them to give me the bump?
In the end, I can say I deserved it all for
I'm a loser, and frankly, I'm also a bore.

Light in the Dark
This world is finite yet unceasing.
it keeps on spinning yet the
people do not. One day,
every person on this earth
breathing now will stop.

From the young to the old,
from the sick to the vibrant,
from the rich to the poor,
the End is the great equalizer.

The fear of death is something real,
the death of the self is a fright.
But the death of us all is a terror.
To think that it awaits every person
is a crisis that strikes the human heart.

To not exist in this plane
to not breathe a single breath,
to know it all will just stop one day,
is the horror of existential horrors.

Much like the pain of grief,
everyone deals differently,
but that's not what this is about.
This is a poem about you,
and one about me.

You are the light in the dark,
the truth in the lies,
and when I want to rip this
world in two and start anew,
I simply take a look at you and see.

Now, I don't know the truth,
and I don't have the answers,
but I can say that being with you
is like living forever.

Step to me, o' child of sun.
Come along, o' mother moon.
Join us all, o' father time.
To a place where all laws stop.

Space, Time, Order, Chaos.
Endlessly shifting, altered eternal.
Dimensions shatter, reality falls.
Forces bubble, gravity smashed.
Crackling quarks, equal
Universal heart attack.

Past the end of forever, and
Through the border of nevermore.
To see the secret of the universe,
Follow me to the edge of infinity.

Life, Death, Love, Hate.
Man's quest, forever unanswered.
Truth and lies, dishonest alibis.
Questioning reason, senses falter.
Beyond understanding, lies true reality.
Cthulhu rules, Man madly dies.

Turn through time eternal.
Rush past the door of eternity.
To see the secret of the universe,
You must follow to the edge of infinity.

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.

I breathe artistic
the air acts as my paintbrush,
my lungs, the canvas.

Don't believe her candy-coated lies, and
don't fall for the girl with candy apple eyes.

Her face is so sweet,
but her heart is sour
Good enough to eat,
Make a man dour.

She'll lick them full lips,
and charm you like that.
She'll shake them wide hips.
while you watch her strut.

Don't believe her candy-coated lies, and
don't fall for the girl with candy apple eyes.

You think she's tasty,
and you're 'bout to score.
But don't get hasty,
or you won't see more.

She'll leave you breathless,
and begging for more.
But you'll be sexless,
your face on the floor.

So don't believe her candy-coated lies, and
don't you dare fall for the girl with candy apple eyes.

Clouds up high in the skies
floating, flying far above us,
like stars for our watching eyes
to dissect and to discuss.

Whether puffy or wispy,
whether eggwhite or gloom-grey,
whether full or misty,
clouds always seem to stay.

Even with a clear sky blue,
there can be found a cloud.
If not one, then maybe two,
floating on high so proud.

What is up there so high,
waiting or perhaps watching
we humans do they spy?
What could be stalking?

Is there a man of the stars,
resting on his fluffy pillow,
a man who came from Mars,
with a beard of smoke-billow?

Or perhaps a race of ancients,
from a long-forgotten age,
who possess great patience,
waiting for a war to wage?

Or maybe so far beyond,
there rests a city of gold,
that wonders where we've gone
and awaits our return foretold.

These thoughts of mine,
do keep my mind thinking
as I enjoy the sun's shine.
and the clouds, like ships sinking.

Rotting men walking rotted streets,
as rotten scents choke the pungent air.
Their tired, weary, restless feet
pound the agitated concrete,
which is as worn and weary
as the people who so rudely
stomp its grayed features.

They make their way to their jobs,
their means of survival, the place
where much like zoos and reserves,
they are poked and prodded, pestered,
and provoked by smiling, grinning men
who are above them on the evolutionary
totem pole that we call the rat race.

So they laugh off the abuse labeled as 'jokes',
they suffer and endure countless injustices
from their fellow animals and their zookeepers,
all so that they continue to earn their measly peanuts,
all in hopes that they can save their nuts,
and maybe buy something that will
give their own existence some new meaning.

A new car, a new TV, a new bit of restless noise,
new white static that will fill the void of
emptiness that they all suffer inside,
and then when the new becomes old,
the process starts anew with another
new trinket or new toy to make more noise.

And so they return home from their misery-laded
job, to a home of misery where their wife
chides them and chastises as a way to
vent her own frustrations at her own personal zoo
where she was poked and prodded and made
to question her own self-worth, her own happiness.

She yells at them for forgetting to put the clothes
in the dryer, although she had clearly said the night
before that she would take care of it and then
she fusses at them for forgetting to put his cup up
even though they were JUST getting ready
to throw it in the dishwasher if she would just
give them a minute to finish their sandwich.

It takes all their strength to not just scream
right back and give her something worth
yelling over, but as their teeth clench,
and their eye twitches, they simply nod
and yes dear until she is satisfied, and leaves
them to go work on their sudoko after-dinner.

With the dishes put up, the clothes in the dryer,
as they are sure to not make the same mistake
twice, their children approach them, begging for
attention and affection, and while they can't blame them,
right now they just want to take a minute to relax
and not hear any more voices of any kind.

But as the child raises their voice to scream,
they wave them off and give them what they wish
for hours, until they tire themselves, and mercifully,
most mercifully, they can be put to bed and put
out of mind for the rest of the night.

The midnight hour fast approaches,
and so they resolve to enjoy the last few hours
of their night, but right as they prepare to
enjoy the newest episode of the newest tv shows,
their smartphones bleats its high-pitched ring.

Its their zookeeper, asking if they can come
into work tomorrow early, even though its the weekend,
and they were promised to get the weekend off,
for the fifth time in as many weeks, but they REALLY
need them to come in and help the cause.

They want to scream, they want to shout,
but they know they can't refuse, because
the first time they dare to, they will be treated
like even worse dirt on shoe if not outright
replaced by a more willing circus animal.

So, through a forced grin,
that can be heard over the phone,
they accept and thank their keeper
for giving them the opportunity
to work once more, and as they hang up,
their wife asks who it was calling at this long hour

They explain it was just their work,
wanting them to come in again, which
makes the wife mad, as she yells at him
for not spending enough time with her
and the kids and why can't he just say no
every once in a while, it's not like they'll
fire him for not showing up one time.

The wife doesn't understand that
his job is what funds her spending,
her lifestyle, their lifestyle, for that matter,
in spite of their best attempts to explain,
and so they fight, and fight, into the night,
until they just decide to give it up, and go to sleep.

The sun rises, and they get up, and
eat their eggs, and put their cup up, and
get dressed, and get ready for one more day
at work hoping that at least sunday will be a free day,
but they have an odd sick feeling in their stomach
that they'll be called in once more early in the morning,
and be forced to make that same rotten walk
to their same rotten old miserable job.

At my door, he stands.
At my bed, he lands.
At my soul, he stabs.
At my heart, he grabs.

My last breath, he laughs.

I want you, and yet you turn away,
like night's embrace, and the passing of day.
When all I want is for you to stay.

Can't we be like this forever,
you and I, in hand together?
When we part, I am severed.

Is it true what they say
that love passes one by
like red roses in the sky?

Let this not be the end,
let us love like we are young,
and die like we are old.

Come one, come all!
View the finest jester of them all!

Zanthus, the clown, in all his glory.
Allow his jests to tell his story.
A pie to the face, a fancy trick.
The finest juggler on our earth!
Through rain, sleet, snow, he
Always comes to work, even when sick.

All who see his mad act laugh, and laugh.
You shall find Zanthus quite merry.
This I swear, or get your money back.
Some clowns your children may find scary.
Not he, his jests are light, and airy.

But beyond his many tricks and whimsies,
And past his colorful look, and bright clothes
There lies a truth, past his red nose.
The solemn reality of Zanthus the clown!

Trust not the smile painted on his happy face,
Instead look and laugh at the agony in his eyes.
His shoulders are hunched in abject misery,
This is the truth that tells his true history.

LAUGH at his sadness!
Take GLEE in his anguish!
For this is the true humor,
Of Zanthus, the tragic clown!

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.

Born of the salty, watery brine,
born of the rising, rapid tide,
she of the romantic river Rhine,
she, the loving ocean's bride.

Alexandria, Queen of the Sea,
her hair like waves upon the coast,
her eyes, cerulean, looking at me.
her smile, inviting me from my post.

Her attire, alluring and appealing,
perfectly provides a picture picturesque,
of the sunlight striking the ocean ceiling.
My head spinning, my thoughts yet coalesce.

I am striding toward that distant shore,
eager to meet my aquatic queen,
to find and hold the dewy hand of lore,
that figure of myth, my dear undine.

Soon I spot the sign of my sweet
her soulful voice singing that sonorous song.
At my arrival, she turns her head to greet,
and I, in turn, gladly return the greeting along.

Her briney hand then reaches for mine,
and I hold it out past the quiet water,
fingers stretching past the gentle coastline.
My hand is ripped down to slaughter.

You silly guy, you little man,
you don't gotta play the clown,
don't gotta dance their dance,
or do tricks to act like you're cool.

All you doing is playing their fool,
when will you think for yourself?
When you will realize you're best off
being yourself completely, with no fear.

I know it's scary being in this world,
and when you're on your own, it's
even scarier. But you don't need them
to feel safe and secure in yourself.

You don't gotta lie to impress me, man.
I know you're great just the way you are,
I know you're smarter, funnier, kinder
than they're ever going to be.

Your potential is limitless, relentless,
when will you realize this. man,
that those blood-suckers just gonna ****
you dry, and leave you when they bored.

You don't gotta be their puppet,
don't gotta let them pull your strings,
or tell you what to do and think,
they got you by a rope leading you on.

You're a hell of a guy, this I know,
but this I don't think you really know,
maybe that's why you let them treat you
like some kind of children's toy to amuse.

And yeah, I know. I'm telling you
what to think in a way, too, and you
don't gotta listen to me. But know,
that I do want what's best for you.

Deep down, I really care about you,
and want to see you happy and free,
not needing they approval to give you peace.
Not needing to falsify just to fit in.

You can do best just by doing you,
cause the you I see when you're happy,
and not around those soul-suckers
is the best you I ever did know.

Raindrops drip down,
staining the grimy ground wet.
Again reminded.

A simple man named Emory Lee,
walked through the streets of Tuskegee.

With a small sack on his back,
and a big stick to go thwack!

Emory Lee, oh Emory Lee,
he's the pride of Tuskegee!

With a sweet smile on his face,
although he does lack grace.

He makes it up with lots of *****,
and a life more fit for a monk.

Emory Lee, oh Emory Lee,
he's the pride of Tuskegee!

A simple mind and a simple kind,
makes for a man worth a find.

Look past his ragged attire,
and you'll see a man to admire.

Emory Lee, oh Emory Lee,
he's the pride of Tuskegee!

God is perception,
But perception be NOT reality.

Your God, My God, His God, Their God,
All different in their own way.
The God of Kentucky is hardly the God of Malaysia.
This alone proves what I say.

Were God truly universal,
His worship would be no rehearsal.
With each culture getting it wrong
All would believe the same, everlong.

So this is the truth.
God is a state of mind.
He, and indeed, all deities,
Rest in the hearts of man.
Everything else is needless pieties.
Restricting, repressing, regressing, restraining
Our natural desires, the flaming pyres.

What you believe is well and good,
Does not change the way it is.
What is real, what is true,
Is what we know, what we sow.

Whatever one might explain with God,
The laws of our world describe quite nicely.
And if our Truth fulfills the duty.
What need we God for in our modern society?
Can not we take solace in our man-made beauty?

Drops of waters dripping down the drain,
leaky faucet keeps ringing in my brain.
Moldy walls, and moldy halls, a mirror
of the mold festering in my soul.

Laying down on this old, musty couch,
staring at a screen reflecting my expression.
I sip from this can, and sit and wonder,
when this low life lost its luster.

Like a rusty old bicycle missing a wheel,
I just keep riding in circles with no direction,
a plague of apathy uncured by introspection.
The hardest thing is just giving a ****.

The telephone rings and rings and rings,
but I keep on thinking and thinking and thinking,
and drinking and drinking and drinking.
I sit, I think, I wonder, and I drink.

An ant becomes king,
subjects hide their heads in shame,
while the world watch on

Step right up and feast your eyes,
On something not meant for mortal eye.
Hide your children, and your wife,
For they could faint from the fright,
And the grisly, grim sight of sights.
And allow me to give you pause.

Even in chains, this freak may bite.
So look carefully, keep on guard.
For here lies Lady Disturbia,
High Queen of the Freaks,
Duchess of Disturbing Delight,
And Princess of Putridity.

Ah, do you doubt my word?
From behind, you say she looks
Divine. Hair, like golden wheat.
A waist so slim and so trim,
And legs so long and so supple.
An image of beauty, so you say.

But don’t be fooled by our Queen,
Simply look from another angle.
See her true face, now if you dare.
See her lovely lips, and doll nose,
See from her one, lone eye,
The rain that falls, and retreat!

I know you are eager to see the sights,
the sounds and songs of fair Paris,
but trust me when I say Quebec
is just as wonderful and elegant.

I was born, and raised in that land,
learning much of all things grand,
from the peaks of Mount Royal,
to the art of Montreal Metro.

I learned of law and of order,
and to this day, I still enforce it so.
You know me as Chief of Police,
for this, I am widely renowned.

Yet, for all its glitz and grandeur,
and its modern beauty and glory,
there does exist a darker side to which
I must inform you in whole.

When you're visiting lovely Quebec,
and you're walking down Old Montreal,
keep an eye over your shoulder
for La Femme Folle du Montreal.  

She's said to creep in the alleyways
and between the old cobbled streets,
snooping for curious tourists
on whom she leaves her mark.

When she spots a sucker she likes,
she greets them with a smile of white,
and beckons them to come closer,
and that is when the mad woman strikes.

She guts the poor souls like dogs,
cutting and slicing them till they're raw.
Once she's done her deed, she leaves in them
the sign: "La Femme Folle du Montreal".

The police have yet to find a lead,
that didn't end up like her victims, dead.
For though her crimes are grisly in nature,
beyond her sign, no evidence has been had.

Little do those silly idiots know the truth,
that she lurks among them, laughing,
her position and rank protecting her.
No one would suspect the Chief herself!

Gotta beware the ****** Machine,
the ****** Machine, quick and clean,
the ****** Machine, run you through,
the ****** Machine, rip you in two.

The ****** Machine is coming for you,
black coats, and black boots stamping in tune
in light of day and the dark of the moon.
The ****** Machine pounds its chest.

The ****** Machine blots the sky,
its oppressive cloud tainting the world,
always watching, always judging,
your faintest mistakes, always begrudging.

The ****** Machine is big, bad, and bold,
it has our minds and the masses under control
to fight, to resist is to wait and die.
The ****** Machine reigns supreme.

Blow backs left right,
flowing from the up-side
sphere of my down-facing
brain.

Cluttered pages of a book-mind,
the junk of thought-pages,
with doodles on the lined edges.
and the corners dog-eared.

Peering through the eyeglass
of the head, one finds a circus
of impulses, a parade of thought-beams
bouncing and pinging off the skull-wall.

Mindless and formless shapes,
of squares and circles, and
more strange formations begin
to come to a discombobulated life.

Shaped by stray desires,
and flaming envy-fires,
and raging dream-embers,
the circus is coming to town.

The clowns paint their faces,
the elephants don their dresses,
the trapezists prepare their rope,
the ringmasters ring their voice
the typewriters begin their dance.

The Parade of Impulses has commenced,
the ringing-pinging-tinging of the bells,
the clanging-banging-jangling of the drums,
the crashing-bashing-thrashing of the cymbals.

The Kingdom of Noise, of discordant sound,
and disjointed spasms proceeds, the
cats and rats and bats stepping out of tune,
the chairs, stairs, and the mares march
to the beat of a spastic, spastic thought-drum.

Gingerbread snaps skip the sweet fandango,
while tangerines and woodwinds play
their **** tunes and the dinosaurs of dixie
tap and sway from side to side.

Paperclips and staples sing Blue Velvet,
while the idol warbles with a Golden Flute,
and the bulldog grins widely and wildly,
playing his 8-bit accordion-tambourine.

Behold the procession of business-men
and cat-women as they are swept into
the noise-sounds, and the thought-images.
What draws them in? the feeling or the fire,
the lust or the raging desire?

The beat goes on, as does the noise,
the pitch rises on, as does the fervor,
soon the soundless static stacks,
buzzing-fuzzing-wuzzing slowly louder.

The marchers march, and the players play,
the steppers step, and the band bandies,
the parade parades, and the mind
snaps.

I’m not the kind of nasty guy
Who’d leave a nice girl high and dry.
When you need me most, I’ll be there,
With handy handkerchief in hand.

That’s right, I’m really pretty cool.
I always enunciate and rarely drool.
Though I guess my pillow’d beg to differ.
Unless you drool a lot, or suffer from liver quivers.
I’m certainly not the kind of who’d judge someone’s oral secretions.

All I know is that I like you lots,
Even more than tater-tots,
And that really does say a lot.
Trust me, I really like tots.
Would you like some tater-tots?
I do happen to have quite a lot.

Silly me, all this talk of tot and tater
Makes me realize the night is growing later.
Mother Moon really is a big hater.
Was that just a lazy rhyme for later?
It’s hard to say, but hey, did you like the cater-
Ing? I know it was mostly taters, but you know…
Potatoes are known for their versa-tater-ility.

Ah! What I meant to say is you look quite pretty.
From your eyes to your toes, I’d say… hit me!
Not that I’m into that sort of thing, no, not me.
Only you’re cool with it? Then sure… slap me
Around a little! Here’s my head on a tee.
I should apologize, my self-deprecating tendencies seem to be kicking in roughly again tonight.
And golly! That last line was long.
I seem to be getting this all wrong.

All I mean to say is that I’d like to kiss your face
But only if you’re cool with it. I’m not one
To take advantage of a girl, or tell her her place.
Trust me, I had a sister who put me in my place
Like A-LOT! Ha! No… no sisters actually. I still know my place.
Just please don’t hit me in the face.
Unless you’d really like to, I guess. Wait, no, that’s weird to say.
Just give me a moment to compose my thoughts and say
What I really want to say to you today, or er, tonight, really.

…I love you. There I said it!
No need to regret it!
Wait, please don’t walk away!
I really do mean what I say!

I long for those long gone times,
when skies were blue,
and you were my truth,
among the lies of love lost.

The stars spoke our names,
reflections like pinpricks on the skyline.
so far away, yet somehow, in our reach.
Yet, was I just grasping at straws,
when I should have been grasping for you?

Caught up in myself was I,
like a mirror reflected to me,
never stopping to see your
hand in hand with mine.

Now this hand hangs down,
my head follows the compass,
and I am left to experience
what is it like for a star to die.

Dear, I fear the end is near,
and I can't seem to recall.
Can you remind me how
we came to be, and
what will come when we
are done?

Dear, I fear I lost my name,
somewhere along the way.
and in my pocket, lies a
picture of a woman I don't know.
Of a scene from a play
that feels so far away.

Dear, I fear the world is fading,
from my memory, but I still
hear the sound of laughter
floating through the trees,
like a whisper to the wind.

Dear, I fear I'm not myself,
and to that, I'm sorry to have
let you down. I know that
I loved you once, when
I knew who you were.

When I was a lad,
I saw those that had,
And those who had not.
It would make me sad,
It would make me mad,
In my head, I thought.

I want a better day.
I need a better way
To make this world today,
A better, better day!

As the years went on,
I grew on and on,
But life seemed to stay
The same, one big con.
Of who lost or won,
One day, I will say.

I want a better day.
I need a better way,
To make this world today
A better, better day!

I’ve grown old these days,
Sitting by the bay.
Life has gone and passed
Me most far away.
But, still, as I lay,
I’ve but one line to cast.

I’ve made a better day,
I’ve found a better way
That makes my world today
A better, better day!

Won't you be my crazy lady,
and won't you be my crazy baby?
Tell me that you'll rock my world,
and I'll be your lover evermore.

When I see you walking around,
I can't help but gawk in awe.
Your long hair, your soft skin,
and the way you look at night,
it sends me into such delight.

You dance the night away,
and I watch the way you sway.
I see how your body moves,
and I can't help but be in tune.

In a moment, I was hooked
like a fish on a line, out of time.
I stepped to you, asking your name,
trying to get to know you good.

You didn't say a word, but flashed a smile,
and winked and took my hand,
as we searched the Motherland.

Before I knew it, you were taking me
to all kinds of new and crazy places,
and meeting all kinds of strange faces,
but through it all, I bared through
cause I knew that I had you.

I did shots off a woman named Rita,
and shared a line with a girl named Kita,
took some pills with a lady named Lita,
and through it all, I never thought to learn your name.

Cause you were my crazy lady,
and soon, you'll be my crazy baby.

Won't you sing to me,
a whisper to a scream?
Won't you tell me all
your dark, dark secrets?

Bare all for me
so that they can
see what you really
are at your very core.

To hide from the light
is to hide from truth,
I know those fears
you tuck away inside.

You don't have to shout,
just whisper in my ear,
and I'll scream it to
the world for all to hear.

If the stab of fright
has stopped you, then
allow me to speak
your heart's sad truth.

To all the world, let me say
This poor fool is guilty:
guilty of that ***** deed,
of disgusting humanity.

You're just a human,
and horribly so.
Imperfect, incomplete,
unwhole, and unwell.

A bag of tears, anxieties,
mixed emotions and fears.
You are not one of us,
just a humanly impostor..

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.

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?

When you’re watching your TV,
And you see people in snappy suits,
Screeching about right and wrong,
Yelling how they will fix it all,
Doubt half of what you see,
And of what you hear, all.

‘Cause people like that, you know,
Can’t be trusted to lead a horse
To water, nor lead you and me.
Their words sound so nice and true,
But look in their eyes, my friend,
And see what really lies through.

Greed, avarice, and malice together,
Form the heart of people like them.
Demons in disguise, they are,
Monsters we gave human form.
Let’s not let these beasts of our burden
Become our new and stated norm.

And trust me well on this, folks.
For I’ve walked among the beasts.
And I know better than to trust them.
But let me say this, just to be sure.
You can definitely trust a man like me.
Of my honorable deeds, I needn’t assure.

Ah, this snappy suit of mine, you ask?
Well, don’t you worry none at all, pal,
Because I’m a guy you can trust your life to,  
A good, honest fella who you can depend on.
I’ll hold up them traditional values dear,
I’ll lead us all, you’ll see once I’ve won.

Before this story, to you, I tell.
I would ask that you listen well.
Mine is a tale that can surely stand,
from very beginning to very end.

My lover was pure, saintly, and true,
almost as if she could be seen through.
Dressed in holy whites, she glided,
and my wayward heart, she guided.

I had little to my status or name,
little of fame to entice her aim.
Yet, still she slithered by my side,
till no longer could it be denied.

I was hers and hers alone to take,
and so I went along for her sake.
Such a fate did not bother me,
for her love made us become we.

Before her, I felt like a scuttling ant,
something small, weak, and scant.
Through her, my heart made worn,
became something else: loveborn.

And so it went from day to night,
a union of souls beaming sweet light.
We lived, we laughed, we loved.
Our ardor was blessed from the sky above.

I, speaking for myself, was fit with glee,
and my mirth could fill the deepest sea.
But, in her, I began to notice doubt,
as if something in her was in a drought.

Her cheeks did not span like before,
her eyes did not gleam like the shore.
Her essence did not shine the sky,
her heart did not beam on high.

I then began to wonder and doubt,
what had caused her this bout.
Was I to blame for her behavior,
had I created my fallen savior?

I knew that I was weak: pathetic,
something to be mocked: genetic.
Was our love doomed: prophetic?
I thought and I thought: splenetic.

If I was so miserable after all,
I would give her cause to squall.
Let us cease the senseless play,
and close the curtain on today.

I met her gaze in our room,
the scene was set for her doom.
I smiled. Then the deed was done.
She was from this world gone.

And in that moment, I stopped.
Looking at her, my head dropped.
In that moment, I had to kneel,
noting she had never been more real.

Everything passes,
from kidney stones
to the worst heartache
for better or worse,
like a gift or curse,
everything passes.

So when you're down and out,
feeling like nobody's got you,
remember that it won't last,
those sweet times'll come back,
just because everything passes.

And you'll be back on the path true,
where you know you rightly belong,
like nothing had ever gone wrong,
like you were silly to even complain,
because everything passes.

Everything passes from taxes
to relaxation, from weight loss
to exhaustion, from parties to pain,
from loss to a gain, it all goes on,
and everything passes.

Even when you're feeling great,
and like you know you ought to,
life follows that great circle,
and you're bound to feel that pain,
but it's okay and you'll be on that train again,
because everything passes.

Life is a cycle of joy and anguish,
that's just the way the game is played,
The question remains, all the same,
will you let it play you, or are you
going to be the one holding them controls?

Everything passes, including all us,
but when life has made that call,
will you have savored every morsel,
like the finest dish in a five course meal?
Or will you have been someone who
let it all happen listlessly, while you
sat and worried restlessly?

One must make the most of their time here,
when they're young and thriving high,
when they can truly take things in their two hands,
so that they can say it loud, and say it proud,
when the movie theater closes for the last show,
everything passes, and from that, I made the most.