I close my eyes and hope to dream, I have slept myself wary of the darkness' company; now the monsters they come for me. Afraid, I CAN'T even scream! I am trapped in this nightmare, where none can hear me.

They emerge from beneath my bed, seemingly thoughtlessly; as they have no heads. Yet still I hear them crackling, "Please be our friend... sleep, and stay till the end."

I see them annoying the shadows, I hear them hissing sins. Yet again they entreat me, "Please be our friend."

Now, I ask screaming, "When will this end? Tell me what sins, have I committed?"

Then they replied, "Aren't you still breathing? That is your sin. You're still living, and we the dead... want us a friend. One will sleep, and stay to the end."

The sun set, with scarlet potential, unrealised and unmet.

As I awaited your ephemeral silhouette; the promise to be kept.

I gazed through my window, to the field of Summer's green below, releasing a sigh, more akin to a moan; for having been born to this tropical paradise, I have never seen fields of snow and ice.

The Capital bustles, with crowds I'm sure, those legions advancing towards all stores; thoughtless exhausting the coin that they had for all year stored.

So this Christmas now, a feast and a fair; a chance for children to have a hundred toys, ninety-nine of which will never be played with again.

I suppose that's fine, go on then and dine, dye you glasses red with the decadence of wine. Feast! Feast till you are merry and fat; eat all on your plate, and I won't begrudge you that.

All I want for this Christmas are my kin, my friends. To have them near, anything I would gladly trade.

I watched them from afar, as they laughed and played. Two pieces of innocence, that were soon to fade.

Cause each day they're getting older, now their smiles don't seem the same. They write their feelings in a folder, cuddling they pillows tightly, as they whisper the other's name.

The boy says: "I wish that I could hold you, just like when we used to play. I feel that I love you, but fear that you might not feel the same. So I'll hug my pillow tight, and these tears... will get me through the night. Tomorrow, I will get to see you smile, and I'll be alright."

The girl peeps through her bedroom window, though she can't see the boy. 'Maybe he's asleep, it was a long day after all.' Now she hugs a handmade doll, and whispers words she hopes it can't repeat:

"He looks so cute, when he takes a nap; though I can't remember, the last day his head rested in my lap. Doesn't he love me? Am I really just a friend? These feelings that I have, how can I ever tell him them? I miss the way he held me, all back then; like I was more than a friend. All of these kisses that I give you, are really meant for him."

She sighs and looks up at sky. "Why must boys become men? And why do I want that man, to be more than just my friend?... To be my lover in the end."

I don't dream, of Mahogany trees at 10:00 pm; beneath whose vast canopies of nighted green, I lay with them.

I don't dream, of sweet songs sang pursuant to savoured seconds stilled; as I acquainted your ears and neck, respectively... collectively to a poet's tongue and fangs. As we forged new fragments of much missed memories, upon our little hill.

I don't dream, of tight embrace, nor of your critus and aggrieved face; they are the choicest fruits of my regretful request: That you return home safe and nothing less.

I don't dream, of them; my every conscious thought and deed are but my surplus offering. O! How I long to give my two copper pieces to them. Perhaps four hours of supplication, might make me more than a friend.

Seconds sire seasons, life by stroll or sprint fades.

In search of higher reasons, none are ignorant of the null totality of yesteryear.

Time is neither favour nor fear; for Oak roots expand their domain, just as vast canopies usurp heaven’s terrain; a babe’s bones are made strong, even more so as toddlers play, yet still shatter, to dust decay, by the passage of Time’s decades.

Live this life, for better or worse; surmount the strife, and derive blessing from curse.

Stone cold... these are the affection of my bed, nestled beside the fireplace, upon stone cold I lay my head; your warmth it no longer knows.

The longevity of nights have passed; now cruel and aching memories are your laughs; now, before my hearts retrieves its mask, a final kiss to you, my past.

Love is at first a whisper... pressed against your ears, by the wind. Then it becomes a flicker, that burns from within; emotions expressed... exposed and eternalised; though you would wish them only to end.

So, in a futile attempt to repent, you remind yourself of a reality well known; though you would wish it, not your own: "We are friends, just friends... and nothing more."

So you brace yourself, content to never show, those emotions that you have buried in an unmarked grave; so that they will never know.

Lo, you embrace your hell, content to type the words that you cannot tell; love is the blurred line, between heaven and hell.

Love is the lullaby, that you sing to yourself; an elixir of poison mercury, that you drink for your health.

White, longing to be stained.
Blank, lacking character, hoping one bestows you a name.
Lined, and confined 8 11, words shall make you free to fly and soar straight into heaven.
A juxtaposition, your very being has attained
Words defined and combined, Paper's Poem shall be yours;

The Unclean, mine.

I had one wish; one word. Now only in nightmarish dreams, might it be heard.

"You."

That was all; my one entreat of mortal men and God. Though in my wanting of you... I had opposed them all.

Your questioning of my loyalty and our love, were to my heart, colder than the most cruel of December rain, from above.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days.
All of these times come, and then go away.
For some men live but a second, few a hundred years; but rest assured all return to the dust, then fade. So spends your time wisely, if just a hasty second or patience year.

Love is as a peom, written without its end.

As its weary poet inks his barren pen.

An art all men wish to read, though very few can see; yes love is above all things, this world's greatest mystery.

I searched for you that day... beneath clouds overcast and grey. First, to the park, where with you by my side, we had slowly walked, whilst the moonlight lit our way... but you were not there.

So I looked here, within this place, whose walls still lacked any remnant of grace; chipped, while winter-white and bare; hoping...praying to see your face, before the sun had fade.

Leaving me in a perpetual darkness, and with a perpetual question of Where.

Come. I can be the constancy to changing centuries; since and stagnant, by your side. I can be your touch, Tomorrow - thereafter - your view beneath the sky.

You don't even love me, o you don't even care. When we are together, I can't tell if you're even there; I reach out for your hand, but you pull away.

You don't even love me, o you don't even care. My eyes begin to water then I hear you say. "Ty, be a man and put away those tears. Or are you still a boy, even after all of these years?"

No amount of wisdom could have made me prepared... to wake up in the morning and realise that you weren't here. You said that we'll be together forever, so did forever end yesterday? Does the end of forever, begin an eternity of pain?

You don't even love me, o you don't even care. Yet I'm still wishing that you were here; you're the cause and cure of my heartache.

What is life? To breathe, to eat, to rest; To hope, to wish, to greet Death? Is it seconds, minutes, hours or days, or perhaps greater times; months and years?

For time is as a breeze of wind, gentle yet moving, unseen yet foreseeing; then men's lives are as leaves, so easily blown away, as life's Author quickly turns a new page.

Will your story be told, rewritten in bold, or forgotten, forever unknown?

I am tired... so very exhausted of it all; inside of this frail body, heart and mind wage a war. I am human, and only human after all.

After Ten Thousand Years, what will remain; after the seas and sands have reclaimed L.A.?

When the continents don't look the same; shuffled around like dominoes, as God prepares to play another game.

Will the stars our audience stay, though we prioritise these silent spectators above our planetary play?

Then there shall come a day, when no taught tongue these words can say; lest as maxims to complement aristocratic displays. When this poem's rhythm and reason, no researcher can attain.

The Gate Wall has been long erode, rendered flat and smooth; a mat laid out upon the floor. Our precious salads' descendants, both physique and favour now wholly unknown; after Ten Thousand Years Nature's nurture will be shown.

After Ten Thousand Years, humanity will remain, and with their mortal expressions; the savagery of ten eons, nay eternity, shall be tamed.

Gaze not at your Christmas tree, nor the many wrapped gifts laid there beneath. For what ever they may be, the greatest gift of Christmas, was long ago bequeathed.

On that cold night in Bethlehem, was born him without sin, Emmanuel, the Promised One, did the people call him. O do you hear the angels herald and sing: "Glory to the King of Kings."

O, what priceless gifts have ye. Of which, how many may set your spirit free? Silver, Gold, precious gems and jewellery, though all are good within none salvation be.

So on this one night promise me, that you'll forget your hams and turkeys, sweet wines, rums and brandies. For Christmas should be more than a feast, festival, or fair, it should be a time of reflection of yesteryear; accepting one's losses, and appreciating one's gains. And most of all remembering Christ for whom, the day is named.

And I'll promise you, after all this pain, a Christmas that you will believe: Could never be the same!

It has never been this hard to breathe, but it has been breathless... suffocating, since you decided to leave.

It feels as though you took a piece of me, and left the rest behind to grieve; as the Sun of our Future dims and sets, shadowed memories of our Past are cast; offering me no relief... no release.

Can you hear my silent screams? You have made nightmares of our pleasant dreams. The tears I shed are often unseen, just like the wounds from which I bleed.

My silent screams, they fill the air, they are at their loudest when no one is near. They plead for a need yet unmet; for a want though beyond my gain. Yet even they weep and wail, at the mere mention your name.

Within these walls reflect, rising remorse and roused regret; symphonies of sorrow seasoned and spiced by despair: Broken promises have brought and forsaken us here.

What is love and true? What is more perfect than You? The perfect Lamb, without blemish or shame, into the darkness with light, You had came. O blessed be Your sweetest name; a name at whose sounding does heal the lame. O what other given name, king's or commoner's may do the same?

History is the religion of the Survivors; the blasphemy of the Defeated; the faith of the Victors.

History is the suspicions of the Non-Believers.

Heartbreak decided, that he had to bring his childhood friend. And I know that he means well, but he could be quite annoying.

Cause who needs memories, when you're trying to forget; memories of how she wiped away your tears, immediately after you had wept.

From where should I start to speak, this story's mountain path or its peak? What does it matter, where it be? I pray that these words may be what I wish that I could be: Free.

O Mother dear, O Mother fair, you must know this is not my way; and yet to differ you would say. Your words still ring in my ears: "What are my intentions?" They are clear, my heart cries out but no one ever listens to hear; so I offer up my silent prayer. As a soldier, I will march on; with bleeding scars beneath my spotless battle gear.

And O Father dear, you have no pride, yes, but what of shame? At the thought I could be gay, you suddenly have a son, whom you wish to call and care. I pay no heed with whom you lay, so may this kindness not be repaid? For kindness and compassion you cast blame, those two- those two are humans first, so call them by their names. I will choose my friends, whom I dare, they are not yours to take away.

Now I understand, people talk and talk they may dare. But life is just so much better when you don't care, of people, or what they say. I know what I am at the end of the day.

People smile, while they ask: "Are you okay?" And I smile in kind, then pleasantly reply. "I can't complain or whine." And that is my daily lie; an illusion of happiness for the pain to hide.

I scream out but no one hears, so to You, Father God I offer my silent prayer.  Give me strength for each new day; lest the real me fades away. And please, could you stop these tears, it's kind of hard to type a prayer in the rain.

Betrayal... is that piece of metal, placed beneath the tongue. And though you rinse and wash, its taste remains; it is too strong.

Betrayal... is that castle on high; no matter how far one goes, it still shows in the sky.

Betrayal... is the lord who demands with each new day, of your heart, a greater tithe. Advising you to march onward and love; even though foes charge at you from the sides and above.

I had met you, quite sometime ago, now I reflect in awe in and earnest, at how the bonds of our friendship have grown.

We are well acquainted with each other's joys and sorrows - Our highs and lows. May we continue as co; passengers and drivers, upon life's lengthy road.

An ear always lent; advice offered without a cost. Truly, to have lived without knowing you or your talents, would have been my greatest loss.

Yet, my Lady is most humble; a flower apprehensive of praise. "Why are my meagre achievements deserving?" Must be the introspective question, which you so often raise. Then pray permit me, if this be the case, to spoil you upon your precious day; to tell you that you are deserving of all the spoken treasures, that this whole world retains.

My friends are numbered, so shortly... So few. Yet I am most delighted, to count first among them, You.

May God be generous and a Father unto you. And may the heavenly choirs sing now, "Bon anniversaire." to you

Those days when you're hardly inspired, we poets have them too. When the pen pressed against the paper, no longer plays its tune.

When you silently reflect, then sighingly regret; whilst eyes are wet. " I should have done this... no I shouldn't have done that!" Pondering why and who. Then wonder no further, cause those moments you see, we poets have them too.

We poets have them too, and arguably more than you. But we poets also live to write, of the sad regrets, the lies and the truth. So, the fight to soldier on, we poets have them too. Each day we write, gripping pen in hand; to start the fight anew.

This page is too vast of an estate; too generous of an allowance, for my meagre heartache. Perhaps another language would do, employing whose alien words; My heart's entirety concisely expressed in such characters, though they be but a few.

I had one wish; one word. Now only in nightmarish dreams, might it be heard.

"You."

That was all; my one entreat of mortal men and God. Though in my wanting of you... I had opposed them all.

Your questioning of my loyalty and our love, were to my heart, colder than the most cruel of December rain, from above.

I miss you, your perfume haunts me in this empty room; though perhaps it's a cruel reminder, that I will see you soon.

Ah, were I to have just one wish, I fear that I might waste it on a kiss; and though lacking wealth, enjoy eternal bliss.

I miss you, truly it is so. So hurry up my love; and come home.

Tell me all of the words that we forgot. Baby, love and kiss me like you can't stop

The hours I counted on the clock, until the glass of milk turned cold and sour, then alone did I stop.

Perhaps to sigh, or even to weep, then returned to my vigil, to faithfully keep.

A clock has three hands, a man has two; yet not even a hundred hands may reach you.

So, O Luna, O Moon- be a dear friend and send her my affections, will you. I am waiting, my love, beneath the Midnight's moon... and biting cold winds.

"Tell me," Said the Eagle. "Can you see better than me? For even perched upon my mountain cliff, I can see the sea."

"Oh?" Said the Poet. "You have good eyes indeed. Do tell me now from your mountain cliff, what else can you see?"

"Hmm?" Said the Eagle. "I can see the trees and the many scores of fruits, hidden beneath their leaves."

"Impressive!" Smiled the Poet. "Quite impressive indeed. Do tell me now: Why you hadn't seen those two children, taunting that poor crab by the sea?"

"What?!" Cried the Eagle. "That cannot be." Refocusing his gaze towards the sea.

The Poet pointed. And over there by the trees... you hadn't seen the harvesters busy at work, beneath the leaves.

"How?!" The eagle began to scream. "Your vision poet, it's an eagle's dream."  

"Whatever do you mean? I am a poet, remember, this view belongs to only me."

"We poets have two pair of eyes, that we use to see; one for reality, and the other for dreams."