I’ve been in quite a tough place for a while.
Never sure if I could find my smile.
Working meant a hollow sacrifice.
Feeling only dry sadness from my eyes.

I hide my grief.
So others don't weep.
But it hurts.
It hurts.

I'm in a paradox.
With my emotional blocks.
I have to fight the treatment.
So others don't feel the impediment.
But I hurt.

They can't know I hurt.
Because then they'll hurt.
And that makes me hurt.

Something gone, distant now.
Looking back, I wouldn’t know how.
Yet here I am.
And here I stand.
Before my friends.
And I’ll smile ‘till the end.

For you,
And for me.

Does this poem make me feel better?
Or does it make me feel worse?
I don't know anymore.
It hurts.

I’m in a cave. I can barely see. I don’t know how long it’s been. I think it’s been years. It’s a labyrinth of sorts. Tunnels everywhere. Every few rooms, there is a ladder leading up or down. These, I call “ladder rooms”  If there is a pattern, I do not see it. Most rooms have only tunnels to the left or right. Some, only up or down, and others, have tunnels that both lead forward, two, side by side, I label them A and B going left to right. I only take the A paths. I go through the first tunnel, a large arch. A ladder room. I go up. Left or right? Left. Right or left? Right. I find a round room with a feral Horse chained to the wall. Mouth foaming. It kicks towards me, gnashing its teeth. I leave it alone and continue. A or B room. I choose A. A ladder room. I go down. Dead end. I go back up the ladder and I feel something drip. I wipe my face, water. Rain? It suddenly pours. Water coming from thin air. An indoor Storm. I’m onto something, I can feel it. There’s more to this. I go through the A tunnel. Ladder room. I go down. Left or Right? I go right and see light. My heart jumps. I suddenly get dizzy. The walls around me start melting and I see… A large arch. I’m back at the beginning. The first room. What a waste of Time. I’m losing hope. I decide to alternate left and right until I’m forced to go down whenever I reach a ladder room. If it doesn’t matter anyway, why not be random with it? Right, Left, Ladder. Down. Right, Left, another ladder. Down. I see light again. But the light is soft, and pink. I see waves around me. “Not again”, I say out loud but, all the sudden, I feel invigorated. I feel ready. Healed. My waist feels just a little heavier. I look, clipped to my belt, a Mask, and an Instrument of some kind. The instrument is labeled “up” “down” “left” “right” and “A”. I play the instrument. Like a flute, but not quite. Left, right, A. I hear a horse. The Horse. It hears me. It’s running. No escape. I see it, and… It stops. The horse is not gnashing its teeth, not kicking at me. No longer feral, the horse is calmed. She lets me ride her. I wear the mask. A little pointy, uncomfortable, I can’t see out of the eye holes very well, but I feel like this is important. I play again. A, down, up… nothing. A, down, up, again and… water, rain, a Storm! Time… maybe… I play. Left, A, down. Nothing. Left, A, down… Dizzy. Head. Hurts. Ground… Cold. I look around. I’m at the beginning. No horse, but the mask is on my belt again. Another waste of Time… Or was it, conservation of time? I play again. Left, right, down, left, right, down. Horse. I play. Left, right, down, left right down, pink light. I feel much better. Something… shining in the light. In a dark corner, I see a gemstone, it softly glows as I approach. I touch it, it glows more. I strike it, it glows intensely. I gather my strength. I hit the gemstone as hard as I can. Blinding light, grating stone, the wall opens. Freedom, finally. In the light, I can see myself. Clean. Clothes not torn, tucked in. But… How long have I been here if I’m… Clean… I step out of the cave. It’s beautiful. A forest, a song. Right, left, up, right, left, up. I’ll remember that. I step through a large, hollow log. A village. And a boy. Green clothes. And a fairy. I put on the mask, and wave. He smiles. We play in the forest. I show him my instrument. He’s shocked. Or is it... scared? He takes it. Looks at it. He looks at me, I’m confused. “You can have it”, I say. “It’s special”. He looks at me, and smiles again. He gives me a flute. It’s simpler, but somehow… Better,  I think. I play the song I heard before. Right, left, up, right, left, up. I’m happy.

Was happy. Until the mask started talking.

(Iambic Pentameter)

What happened to the lady of the lake?
Skin of ice, hair of gold, and eyes of fire.
Her heart cleave’ed in twain by an oak stake.
Townsfolk found her secret of the vampire,
Doing such they did not fix their problem,
Her love only became engulfed in rage.
Secretly he brought her back to haunt them.
Lost and trapp’ed in an internal cage.
Skin, glassy green, hair of ash, eyes of fog.
Her love, fearing what he made, took his life.
Her horrifying shriek is like a hog’s.
Endlessly she chases wielding a knife.
Forever more, her soul will be broken
Forever be trapp’ed in Lake Frozen.

This is a Poem
because it rhymes.
The muse’s threads have woven them
where nothing else but sorrow survives.

This is a Poem.
as old and as true as the sky.
Words from muses below them
let no others survive.

A very Generic Poem
as Generic as untoasted bread.
As low as where the ships stow them
spun just as blankets from a thread.

A very plain Poem
as plain as a white piece of paper.
As potatoes in the gardens that grow them
the trowels extend with their taper.

A substantially unimportant Poem
as substantially unimportant as a fruit fly
as the Marine’s obstacles that slow them
as the silent pained one’s mute cry.

This poem means nothing.
It doesn’t even have to rhyme.
As long as it is cutting
it will remain till the end of time

These spirits worry me, for they do not set me free.
They live inside my head, they fill my mind with dread.
These spirits shape my thoughts, but anger is all they’ve wrought.
The muses take my hands, they fill me with demands.
They shout in my ears, and create a future of fears.
They wake me with their flutes, but when I try to oblige, they’re mute.

The spirits lay inside, in my mind is where they hide.
They show themselves through my fingers, and their influence lingers.
The mute muses run my life, they are the cause of my strife.
I am not in control, for what could be my role?

When the muses are mute.

I take a break from the muses, and their constant abuses.
The pressure builds inside, for there’s nowhere they can hide.
The muses scream and shout, they want to be let out.
They promise to be good, that they misunderstood.
I release the door, they rush out, restored.
They open their smiles, and I am beguiled.

Their silence writes a thousand poems.

Is it a gift? Or is it the curse?
The curse of the mute muses.