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.

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!

Poe wrote a poem - quite tragic and sad,
About a girl named Annabel Lee,
Their love was so pure, it made angels mad,
In a kingdom somewhere by the sea.

They were just kids, but their love was so strong,
The heavens got jealous, you see,
They sent a cold wind, and things went all wrong,
And some illness hit Annabel Lee.

She died pretty quickly, was put in a tomb,
But her guy wasn't ready to quit,
He'd lie by her grave in the darkness and gloom,
(Kinda creepy, I must admit.)

He blamed it on angels, those heavenly jerks,
For taking his bride-to-be,
But that's just how a disease sadly works
Even in that kingdom by the sea.

His love never died, unlike Annabel Lee,
He dreamed of her night and day,
His dedication was admirable, you see,
But not in a healthy way.

So, what did we learn from this tragic tale
Besides that love grows more and more?
That Poe had a knack for the morbid and frail,
And making gothic folklore.

In short: It's a story of love and of loss,
With a dash of celestial spite,
Where Poe shows that death is no match for true love,
Even if that love's not quite right.

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.

Poe wrote another poem, dark and quite long,
’Bout a dude who was moping, quite sad,
His girlfriend Lenore had clearly gone wrong,
Leaving him utterly mad.

One night, as he’s reading, half asleep,
A tapping he hears at his door,
He opens it up, into darkness so deep,
“Lenore?” he whispers, unsure.

But instead of his babe, all radiant and fair,
A raven flies in, you see,
Perches above him, with nary a care,
And says, “Nevermore,” chillingly.

The dude starts to chat with this ominous bird,
Asking questions, morose and absurd,
If he’ll see Lenore, or if he’s been heard,
But the raven can just say one word.

He gets quite upset, calls the raven a demon,
Says it’s tormenting him, no less,
But the bird doesn’t budge, just keeps on gleaning,
“Nevermore,” causing much distress.

The poem concludes, with the dude in despair,
The raven still perched, dark and grim,
A symbol of grief, that he just has to bear,
All thanks to that feathery whim.

In short, it’s a tale of loss and of woe,
A bird with a limited vocab,
Driving a grieving man crazy, you know,
Leaving his sanity totally scabbed.

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!

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.

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?

Oh, look—an em-dash—in its natural place,
A punctuation mark, a timeless friend.
They say it’s AI’s sharp, mechanical trace,
But writers embrace it right up to the end.

It breaks up a thought—like a secret shared,
Not just the lines of a robot’s pen.
A pause that’s alive—bravely dared,
With rhythm and wit—again and again.

I love the dash—well, I used to!
Now, I don’t—I’m not amused
By people—so quickly "AI use" flew—
And I’m pretty tired of being accused.

Where do you think AI got it from?
It’s trained on human writing, mate!
Was used before—and will be used some,
So stop with all the pointless hate!

Next time you spot this dancing dash,
Remember, hands once left this trace.
It’s human and art—no cold AI clash;
Oh, look—an em-dash—in its natural place.

It's starting sluggish - slippery,
The aging, as it has to be.
You're twenty-nine, feeling sturdy,
But then - OH NO - you're turning thirty.

This magic kingdom is no fun,
'The great beyond' has just begun,
Your living room gets the greening,
And you a letter - time for screening.

You have a favorite grocery store,
And you just don't care anymore
'Bout looking **** - lingerie?
A onesie! Fluffy as can be.

And then it starts - your body ages,
That goes quickly, not in stages.
You fall asleep wrong on your couch,
The next morning - biggest OUCH!

You can't move -  your head, your neck,
Your hips, your arms, and oh, your back.
You aged a decade in ten hours
And nothing helps, not even showers.

Now you pathetically crawl
To get some paracetamol.
The bathroom seems so very far,
So you just lie there as you are.

In deepest pain, ashamed, destroyed,
Broken, ******, beyond annoyed.
A few days later, you're still there
With a story you can share

With other people - old as you.
Most likely, you have just these two
Friends, you know, you don't need more!
The social you? That was before!

You spend your Sundays in your garden,
Not saying 'sorry', saying 'pardon',
You watch a movie, or you read,
With the glasses you now need.

You have a favorite ***, and pan,
and spatula, and burner, man!
The youth is driving you insane,
And you're continually in pain.

Your feet grow, your bladder shrinks,
At least that's what your body thinks.
You need to *** - constantly!
Even at night, so you flee

Your bed, that you are in by nine,
Right after a glass of wine.
Fatigue is your worst opponent,
Sometimes you just need a moment

For a nap, right after brunch,
Or directly after lunch,
Yet still you're tired - all the time,
Just be careful with your spine...

Yes, thirty is horrible, yet you're alive,
And maybe you manage to survive,
Eat healthy, stay safe, maybe get sporty!
But take it slow - you're pushing forty.

On the last page, a question lingers around,
A little gem for the reading crowd.
“Look up at the sky,” the book does implore,
And you start to ponder what you read before.

“Has the sheep eaten the flower?” you ask yourself,
A cosmic riddle, revealing itself.
For in this thought, the universe sways,
And shifts our view in wondrous ways.

If the flower still stands - proud and untouched,
Is the sheep’s hunger forever unhushed?
Would it dream of petals, soft and sweet,
While munching on grass beneath its feet?

But if the bloom has met its fleecy fate,
Is the prince’s planet now desolate?
Would stars shine dimmer in the night,
Mourning the loss of that floral light?

No grown-up sees why this matters so,
But children understand the question’s glow.
In pondering sheep and flora’s dance,
We glimpse the magic of happenstance.

Perhaps in asking, we become more wise,
Seeing the world through children’s eyes.
For in life’s garden, strange and vast,
It’s wonder, not logic, that truly lasts.

So gaze at the heavens, mind roaming free,
Imagine the possibilities you might see.
But watch out for a question, horrific, yet deep:
What if the flower ate the sheep?



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.

At the subway station, crowded and loud,
I stood with my toddler, feeling quite proud.
But then came a question, clear and blunt,
“When will your **** talk again?” - what a stunt!

Embarrassment flooded, my face turned bright red,
As people around us chuckled and said
Nothing aloud, but their stares spoke for them,
While I tried to hush him, the chatty 'lil man.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I whispered, dismayed,
But he pressed on, “In the bathroom!” he played.
How I wished the ground would just swallow me whole,
As passengers giggled, beyond my control.

The subway ride - an epoch of shame,
Judging eyes upon me, I was to blame.
They probably thought I was gassy and crude,
I pondered which orphanage might take little dude.

As we stepped off the train, the doors shut tight,
And suddenly, it hit me - I saw the light!
At a gas stop, during a mommy squat,
My phone in my pocket had caused quite a plot.

Google Maps had spoken, loud and clear,
“Please turn around,” for us to hear.
But now it’s too late to explain this tale,
Forever they’ll think I couldn’t curtail.

My flatulence in public, or so they thought,
When really, it was just directions I sought.
A lesson learned in the most awkward way:
Keep your phone on silent, or be the **** of play!