In our lives are many choices.
They display our inner voices.
To be vengeful and cruel.
To let anger and hate rule.

All our decisions,
Can create divisions.
Or they can be revisions,
Like stitches closing incisions,

No matter what we are feeling,
We can choose the path of healing.
Meeting anger with kindness.
Using calm to cure rage’s blindness.

Pushing past our old boundaries.
Reforging ourselves, like metal in foundries.
Disregard fear, choose to live free;
To improve ourselves, be better. We…

Have so many choices.

I'm tired of her *******.
Sending me kisses and hearts.
Yet lying in every part.
She thinks I'm her toy,
to prop her up while she knocks me down.

She's sad,
I'm there.
I'm sad,
She's nowhere.

Round and round,
no end to be found.

Until the last time we spin.
I realize how I can win.
I laugh with a grin,
Because I'm Pacman
And she's Inky.
And none of this is *****.
So I won't send it to ya through the post.
But I'm gone honey.
Ghost!

Crackling fire, shrinking slow.
Outside, rages a storm of snow.
Through my shelter howls a wind.
I'm unsure if I can defend,
myself from the dark and cold,
as the fire grows ever old.

To get some rest is my desire.
But with the cold, I shall expire.
So I force myself to stay awake.
As my body begins to shake.
Suddenly I feel every ache.
I think of every person I've hurt.
Every opportunity missed, a mistake.
No matter far I put that behind,
those thoughts are still in my mind.
There's no solace for me to find.

The fire starts to crackle and pop.
It briefly makes the thoughts stop.
The fire is very dim.
I know my chances are slim.
So I have a choice.
To lie down and die with the fire.
Or to get up and raise my voice.
I choose to roll the dice.
I will not go gentle into this cold night.
I shall rage, rage against the dying firelight.

Giant stuffed Pikachu
Sitting alone on the shelf.
It plots all our dooms...

I'm sitting here again;
tired, confused, I feel used.
I then wonder when
I will stop being bruised.
When I will stand up to this abuse.
I am not being obtuse.

So I run to the bathroom,
cold, wet tile ground.
I look to where the pain is found.
What stares back, eyes, tired and bloodshot.
The realization tears through me, gunshot.
My own hands fired the gun,
making all my work undone.
I'm done with this barrage...
of self-sabotage.

My dear traveller, you seem weary and tired.
Why not rest your feet, while I tell you a story of a far off place?

There exists a land of extremes.
With a vast Ocean of Sand,
Where sunlight beams
Across the golden land.
Hills that rise and fall.
From atop, one can see all.
The sand has a current,
It bends and it flows.
Sometimes it moves in a torrent,
But to where, no one knows.
If you lie down on those gilded grains,
The sand, coarse yet warm, eases pains.
And should you listen, you’ll hear tunes,
Played by the wind through the solemn dunes.

But in this desert, there is a mystery.
A Tower, consumed by sand, with unknown history.
And a Palace, crumbling and in ruin.
But with an aura so dark, not even snakes withdrew in-
From the midday sun, burning infernal.
There is no release from the heat eternal,
Until the sky becomes nocturnal.

The sands take a cooler form at night.
Cold ground, bathed in moonlight.
But it’s as the earth begins to glow,
Where one truly appreciates its flow.
If you listen close, you can hear them hiss.
The sands, moving soft and slow, like a lovers kiss.

Should you look up, you might glance,
A glimpse of the great Black Planet,
And be caught in its trance.
Then prance with the maddening dance,
Where one’s mind is filled with romance,
And the Mad One makes its advance.
But should you perchance, break from its spell,
You would certainly have a tale to tell.
Of a darkly beautiful land.
An Ocean of Sand.

Now, my dear Traveller, should you feel so inclined,
To analyze my Words and Read through the lines,
You might just expand your mind.
And enjoy your times.
Good bye for now, dear Traveller.
Come back another time, for another story.