Could we call it love?
We had never even met
It could never be

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 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.

I am the sad child.
I cry and when I cry,
No tears fall.
Cry, Cry, Cry, I go.
My sad, little eyes
cry and cry.

I am the sad child.
I smile, and when I smile...
I can't smile.
Smile, Smile, Smile, I try.
But all I can manage is
A pathetic cry.

I am the sad child.
I laugh, and when I laugh,
It is hollow.
Hoh, Hoh, Hoh, I go.
I am cold, and hollow,
and empty inside.

I am the sad child,
I wonder, and when I wonder.
This is what I wonder.

Why can't I be the happy bunny?
Others are happy, yet I am not.
Must this loneliness forever be my lot?
On the surface, I appear to be sunny
But I am nothing, not even a happy bunny.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

When you take a look around,
and watch the marble turn.
It's easy to say the world is doom.
That all we are is glum gloom.

Look at all the sad people,
sobbing in the streets.
Look at all the sad people,
struggling on their feet.

But take a look inside,
and see the happiness blossom.
From the children at play,
from the future seen today.

Don't let your views be clouded,
by the plastic lies on T.V.
When you take the world as it truly is,
with your eyes, you will anew see

The happy child, the gleeful pup.
The grinning girl, the joyous cat.
There is beauty in it all.
From the very tall to the small.

In laughter and in loving,
our true truth is made clear.
To love another is to touch the sky,
to make one laugh is most dear.

What a miracle it is to just be,
truly it is a gift worthy of thee.

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.

When I look into your amber eyes,
I know I can no longer deny,
the way you make me feel inside.

No more can I, these feelings hide,
No more can I, try to disguise,
No more can I, wonder why.

I got to be true to me,
and got to do good by you,
and let you know these feelings true.

I don't know if you feel the same,
I don't know if you think I'm plain,
or if you'll even recall my name.

But I know if I build this wall,
no matter how big or how tall.
I'll still be loving you all.

So let's cut this white static,
and maybe cause a little havoc,
and maybe make me ecstatic.

You can love me or leave me,
you can hug me or mug me,
you can kiss me or miss me.

I just got to let you know,
so baby, I'll start the show.
Won't you be my loving beau?

The world is blue,
and so are you.
I spent years tangled up in you,
but now I’m done, with all of you.

The world is blue,
and I am blue,
and you are blue,
and I am through.

My heart was blue
caught up in you.
I’ve been tying myself in two
ever since I first spotted you.

My heart is blue
and I am blue
and all is blue
but so are you.

Time is a haunting specter
that no one can deflect,
It stalks us in that Dark,
that knows no name and
strikes in that Light invisible.

It slinks like a skeleton-snake,
slithering and sliding like
a spectral side-winder,
won't see it smile when it
stabs at your soul.

It drains you slowly but surely,
as it makes your hair fall,
and your fair looks fade
till one day you stare inside,
and realize you're nothing
but wrinkles and bones,
waiting to fall to dust.

The fact time passes at all,
should be a felony offense
punishable by death itself,
but let us not mince words.
Death is Time, and Time is Death,
in tandem they work best,
but are yet, one in the same.

The best solution one can find
is to find that magic moment,
frame it like a prized picture,
shoot it like its classic cinema.
Make the most of it so when
Time, that deathly-snake, strikes
you can pass with a smirk and a smile.

My friend, so full of heart
Shall bring light to the dark.

My friend is good and kind,
Sharp of wit, and bright mind.

My friend will be the one
With her many tales spun

To turn our world around
Until she wears the crown.

She possesses the make
To conquer our life’s race.

But either way, she is
My friend for evermore,
A mighty writing ****,
And a foe nevermore.

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.

The world is like a dancing marionette,
constantly spinning and swaying on a dime,
its movements amazing and hypnotizing,
and no one stops and sees the strings.

So they say it's all randomness and chaos,
some sort of wild, cosmic dice toss
with no sense of order and morality,
and no one to say what is wrong or right.

But the world runs on infinitesimal strings,
slowly shaking and shifting with each silent motion,
another day is decided or a drink is imbibed
each vibration choosing a nation's fate.

From the universal big beginning,
to what one had to eat for breakfast,
it all comes down to silly, simple strings,
that decide for us, all and everything.

As he runs further away from his home,
he unravels like a ball of red yarn,
with nothing but torn fabric does he roam.

As it is told in this sorrowful tome,
of the ones who forced him from his red barn,
as he runs further away from his home.

His ragged feet pummel the earthy loam,
with his shabby hat ripped and torn by thorn,
with nothing but torn fabric does he roam.

All that his soul owns is one bamboo comb,
a possession from one who he does mourn,
as he runs further away from his home.

His pained heart beats a dreary monochrome,
still paining from they who gave him much scorn,
with nothing but torn fabric does he roam.

Sighing, he retreats to the catacomb
a man whose fate he did not truly earn.
As he runs further away from his home,
with nothing but torn fabric does he roam.

There is no grace in suffering.
There is no honor in abuse.
There is no dignity in hardship
There is no virtue in stoicism.

Abuse is simply abuse.
Suffering is simply suffering.

You are no saint nor martyr.
You are just a victim.
And until you choose not to be,
That is all you will ever be.

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.

When the sky was opened,
and you appeared,
I felt a sudden fear.

A certain realization,
a punch to the heart.
I felt the fire rising.

I saw that you were alive,
and something higher still,
while I was still here.

I wondered what it was,
grounding me down,
and you so above.

Would I be stuck here
forever alone am I,
while you stood above?

Fear turned to anger,
and anger to hate,
and here I am today.

Waiting, watching, wondering,
when next the sky will part,
and I can make my move.

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?

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..

Ah, on nights such as these
Does my heart long for thee.
The cold, does it linger
Making my heart malinger.
Still I continue.

Winter shields not the ever-present thoughts
Of all that we were, had, and could have been.
My mind, it does continue to ponder
As my feet trudge and sluggishly wander.

O', what joy did you and I once possess?
I remember how your eyes did sparkle.
An emerald's gleam could not dare compare
And let's not speak of that smile that did glow.

Before we met, my heart, it was frozen.
Made hard by much anguish and constant grief.
As the storm of life battered my soul's sails,
A glacier, my heart grew cold and icy.

Careless, distant, and blase was my life.
I grew too cold to other people's strife.
What friends I had soon made their departure.
I was alone, and alone was I pleased.

But you were the one who opened my eyes.
Your beauty shook all my preconceptions.
'Twas not just your comeliness that stunned me.
Like a Fae sprite, you ******* my winter spite.

You challenged, and you motivated me
To change and to care about life once more.
It took some time, but I knew you were mine.
I came to love you, and you did love me.

But my eternal bad luck proved fatal.
To probe my memories brings just trouble.
Safe to say, you left me snow-blind and cold.
Winter is my nature, my creed, my state.

As the fallen fall leaves crunch at my feet
I can deny not my life's defeat.
All my joy and sorrow has come to naught.
I may as well roam among the snowmen.
'Twould mean just as much.

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.

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.