there come the days
when frost falls on the soul
tells us to shore up prudently
against the times
of shorter days and darker nights

gather your sticks and bones
and keep them well
so they will burn
   with life and fire
and warm you in the evenings
until that moment when
    in flashing rainbows
you expire

                * *

if at all,
how to approach?

if approaching,
how to be accepted?

if being accepted,
how to avoid
too much of it?

if successfully avoiding,
how not to hurt
or miss
the most important?

if not avoiding,
how to maintain
yourself?

if maintaining,
more or less,
your sense of self,
how to transcend it?

and if transcending,
how to appreciate
the other
for what s/he is?

how to be close
without the pain
  of loss
upon retreat?

how to acknowledge
that the other
  always is
out there
  and yet
in here?

     * *

coming to think of it

the first woman
to whom I ever
had been very close
must have been desperate
to claim a father
for her three-month child
as yet unborn

she came into my bed
   out of the blue
with fierce determination

the mission failed
   I was too cautious
and her rash parting
left me wondering
at her dismay

not until some months later
   when I saw her push the pram
did I become aware I had
   unwittingly
emerged fairly unscathed
from ancient battlegrounds
of social order


* *

Anger flows through me. It's rapid and unstoppable. Savage waves of strong emotion perform furious tosses and turns inside me. They are maddening, and yet still majestic. I can't take them out. They will take over me and I wont be able to do anything about it. They can't transform into tears; I'm too angry. Ragging flames can't turn into water. Oh my, what shall I do? My fingers twitch nervously trying to find a solution. My hands know it before my brain can process it and I grab a nearby pen.
I grab the aching pencil and a poor notebook that was there at the wrong time. My victims are waiting to be messengers of my dilemmas. Writing tool in hand, I fiercely attack the innocent paper. Rage pours from my soul to my hand and through the pen, to end up in the form of not-so-neatly-written letters. Words start to take form, and later on, sentences. Those sentences are screaming so loud but they are silenced, trapped in the sheet of paper. My words are are charged with everything that once was in inside me, poisoning me and my objective view of life. Words flow from my fingers in fast, impatient movements. I'm anxious, but it will be over soon.
I stop. It's all out. Now that all of that, all my frustration, is all in the ink-marked paper. It looks at me in disgust, as the inky traces try to make their way out of the paper. They liked it better here. They had a more audible voice, they think? Not so true.
Every ounce of negativity has now left me and I'm exhausted but happy.
I relax and fall into the mattress of my comfy bed in the soundless night, and smile to myself.
My angry thoughts (turned into words) are shouting at me from the floor, where I left them, I can't help to laugh at the sight.
I sigh contentedly and drift off to a dreamless, unperturbed sleep.
Detached form my pessimism.
*Happy.

Terry Pratchett died Thursday. He was a critically acclaimed British Fantasy Author, as well as an advocate for assisted suicide and Alzheimer's Disease. He himself was diagnosed with Alzheimer's in 2007, yet still continued to write, even after he was incapable of using a computer to write (he used a dictation machine afterwards). Before his death at the age of 66, he wrote the popular "Discworld" series consisting of four books, as well as one of my personal favorites, "The Wee Free Men." He was inspirational for me as a writer and he changed my view of writing. With his books, I found my writing style. There are no words to express my awe at his life and works, nor are there words to express my deep sadness in which I tell you that he has passed. May he rest in peace and reach a world even better than that of Discworld.

“There's always a story. It's all stories, really. The sun coming up every day is a story. Everything's got a story in it. Change the story, change the world.”
― Terry Pratchett, A Hat Full of Sky (Discworld, #32)
Well Mr. Pratchett, you've changed the story.

You that girl in the mirror?
The one that looks and talks just like you?
Well that isn't you.
It's the mask you put on during this game of charades.
The world is a charade and everyone is playing a part,
Whether it ba sad or happy,
Tragicly frightening or fearless.
That is not you,
Don't be afraid to let it show.

We all believe in something great that we will witness,
In this sea of hopeful people, everybody's got the sickness.

I'm not the only one who wants a way out; we all want to be free.
There's no cure this far down, we've got the dreamer's disease .

last night
I had a thought
that felt like it might turn
into pure poetry

I clung to it
and tried to make it stay
and grow

but it went on its way

and I to sleep

nothing but memories to keep
   of possibilities

when the loud beep of my alarm
woke me to other thoughts
and yet another day