A week ago, I saw the doc,
He sighed and said, "You're done."
His gaze was sharp, his mood was stock
Of doom that weighs a ton.

According to the doctor, who
Did the tests - left me in rage -
And I can say, he did a few,
I now have reached a certain age.

"Congratulations! To the grave!
Your warranty's expired."
He squinted, acting bold and brave,
And jotted, uninspired.

Now, I'm not old, I'm still alive,
Mid-thirties, barely used!
He acts like I cannot survive
And I'm not even bruised.

"This number's grim," he softly spoke,
And slid the labs my way.
"Prepare for cracks and brittle smoke,
The slow decline's display."

This sentence left me in a rage,
It brought me close to tears.
If I have NOW a certain age?
What am I in ten years?

Will I then be fossil folk?
Geriatric garbage, yes?
A day away from my first stroke?
A muddled medical mess?

A certain age? What does that mean?
I am just mid-thirty!
Yes, I know, I'm not eighteen,
But I'm still strong and sturdy!

A certain age, what does it say?
I'm only halfway through.
A ticking clock that won't obey?
A joke I never knew?

A certain age! - Oh, should I laugh?
Who was I consulting?
I am more than just a graph
Or number! That's insulting!

A certain age! Doc, **** yourself!
I count myself as young,
Now go, read books from your big shelf,
While I show you my tongue!

As long as I don't smell of mold,
Nor creak with every step,
I'll dance defiant, young and bold,
Not ready for death's debt.

Last night I dreamed about a man
I've never met before.
He held fresh flowers, smiled then,
Right there, at my door.

We spoke a bit, then I woke up,
The morning cut the scene.
But questions overflow my cup:
Who was that man I’d seen?

So, I am now pondering
The strangers in my dreams,
And why they are conquering
My thoughts - that's how it seems.

But are these strangers in my visions
Really strangers though?
Or did we have short collisions
A long, long time ago?

Maybe we have met before?
A passenger on the train?
A customer in a grocery store?
Profiles saved in my brain?

Does my mind perhaps contain
A secret store of faces?
Of people passing through my lane,
Leaving unseen traces?

What if we dreamed the same strange dream,
At once, in secret time?
He saw me drift upon the stream,
As I saw him in mine?

Neither of us will ever know,
‘Cause we have never met,
And we can’t talk about the show;
How interesting is that?

And one last question chills my mind,
The thought just makes me scream:
How often have I been assigned
A role in someone’s dream?

Goethe's ballad - spooky and weird,
About a dad and his feverish kid.
They’re riding through forests, boy pretty scared
Of a ghost king who won’t stay hid.

The boy sees the Erlking, all creepy and such,
Dad: “It’s fog, you *****, just sleep!”
But the spirit keeps talking, a bit too much,
Oh, what a sly little creep.

“Come play!” says the ghost, “I’ve got cool stuff!”
The kid’s like, “Dad, he’s being weird!”
Dad’s still in denial, acting all tough,
While his son’s getting more and more scared.

The Erlking’s persistence is quite absurd,
Lures the boy with his daughters and more.
The dad keeps on riding, not hearing a word,
Kid is shaken right to the core.

Dad blames the nature, keeps talking crap,
For him - the story needs proof.
Eventually, they make it home, but oh snap!
The kid’s kicked the bucket, gone ****!

So what did we learn from this creepy tale
Besides, "don’t ride sick through the night?"
That Goethe loved drama on an epic scale,
And making dads look not so bright.

In short: It’s a story of fever and fails,
Denial, and a ride through the night.
The forest plays tricks, the creepy prevails,
And a kid giving up the fight.

Philippa Foot, a thinker wise,
Proposed a moral game:
A twist designed to make you rise,
And act to earn your name.

A train runs wild; it will collide,
With five doomed on the track.
You're standing - watching from the side,
No way to call them back.

But near your hand, a lever waits:
One pull will shift the rail.
You change the train’s relentless fate,
But is this choice a fail?

It now will strike a single man,
But leave the group alive.
Yet he was safe before your plan,
Now HE will not survive.

To save the five, you claimed his life,
Was that the better plan?
A noble act, or something rife?
A group against one man?

So ask yourself: are five worth more
Than sacrificing one?
Or would it haunt you at your core,
No matter what was done?

If you had simply walked away,
The five would surely fall.
Yet choosing death for him that day
Still leaves you bearing all.

The lesson is no verdict clear,
No answer cast in stone:
The trolley’s track runs ever near,
And leaves the choice your own.

Doing nothing is not right
But neither is intervening,
You're always the killer - and the knight,
And THAT is the only true meaning.

A poem for the men out there,
Those making jokes without a care,
'Bout bears and women - why we choose
The bear; not possible abuse.

You see, ten guns here, in a row,
Pick one out, and then, you know,
Put the gun right to your head,
Pull the trigger... are you mad?

What do you mean, not reassured?
Most guns are usually secured!
Most are empty; just one is loaded.
I'm sure no guns have yet exploded.

What do you mean - you don’t know
Which ones are safe? Really, though?
"NoT aLl GuNs" - I just said that,
The chances here are pretty flat.

Oh, you had an uncle who
Got shot while handling guns? You do?
Your grandpa, brother, friends, and dad?
All of them? Oh, that is sad.

Some are dead? In a grave?
But still... most guns are pretty safe!
It doesn't mean you'll end up dead,
So put the gun right to your head.

Pull the trigger, it's not bad,
And if it is, you should have had
Thought about what you wear!
And that's why women choose the bear!

I sit and stare, the cursor blinks,
Writer’s block has all the kinks.
No inspiration, not a spark,
An empty page, my brain just dark.

But wait! Upon my shoulder sits
A creature of peculiar wits.
A chameleon, small and green,
The strangest writing buddy seen!

He ***** his head, one bulging eye,
And seems to say, “Come on, just try!”
Then, shifting hues to sunny gold,
He whispers tales yet to be told.

When drafting poems, sad and deep,
He turns to blue, begins to weep!
A tiny tear, a mournful sigh,
Reflecting feelings passing by.

For action scenes, a fiery red,
He puffs and hisses, filled with dread.
His little claws begin to tap,
Demanding twists within the gap.

If comedy’s the chosen style,
He turns bright pink and seems to smile.
And puffs his throat in silent glee,
Suggesting jokes for you and me.

He’s not much use with grammar rules,
And spelling? Well, he knows no schools.
He just provides the vibrant spark,
The wild ideas, and character arc.

Thank you, Allan, my scaly muse,
For chasing off the writer’s blues.
With every color, every change,
You help my creativity arrange!

Some poems were written by a poet named Poe,
Of ravens, bells, and lost Lenores.
His mind scribbled out some macabre woe,
Leaving readers check behind their doors.

In “The Raven” he played a trick,
Quoth the bird, “Nevermore” to say.
He whispered secrets, dark and slick,
And wove a tale both grim and gray.

“The Bells,” a haunting serenade,
He tolled the bells of life’s decay.
With “Annabel Lee,” a love parade,
He marched us to the grave’s cold way.

Oh, Poe - the poet and his poems of hell!
His heart, a master of the night,
His words, a wicked, wondrous spell.
His mental state - not quite alright.