Was I supposed to veer left at the fork in the road
or should I continue with here I tread?
So much confusion from the signs I read.
Is it too late to find my way?

I long to be home, finding comfort next to the fire.
It is winter and the air is bone-chilling;
memoirs of love being my last inner killing.
Please, Frost, help me find a way!

It's not too late! It's not too late!
Branches scrape as the dead oaks howl.
Fear is the new survival, reality now foul.
I cannot seem to find the path.

Minutes felt like hours, days felt like years,
and memories of a home soon began to fade away.
It was the fear and doubt that led me astray.
I don't think I can make it..

My legs collapse and the pile of snow welcomes me.
With a final look, I see a flickering, dim light.
Home! I crawl frantically through blightful white.
The light flickers desperately...then, night.

*I guess I was too late

Train of dreams, where do you lead?
Slumbering visions, I do not see.
A future guided by uncertainty
Clouded clarity, oxymoronic ambiguity

A set path banded by wood and steel
Is this what I'm reduced to?
Lockbox of emotions that which I feel
Shades of gray, gloom pupil hue.

Can I not change this fate?
Going from point A to B,
The heart dislikes, becoming irate.
Mind throwing a mutiny, a firm decree.

Destiny is truly a funny thing.
You can always build a new rail
You're your own conscious being,
So your train shall never derail.

Am I the right piece that fits your life
or was I merely misplaced in the wrong box?
The shapes are starting to spread thin
and the puzzle is nearing completion.

There once stood a beautiful meadow where the tulips grew,
but the vibrant colors have wilted to a palish gray.
The appreciation for this natural serenity still exists,
but the love...the love is questionable.

Have you outgrown the nutrients that I provided
or is it simply the necessity to spread your seeds elsewhere?
I cannot and will not know the truth
for all I am left with is memorial remnants.

Conversing through a brew, amongst neon lights
one would say shooting the **** about past fights.
There were cries of laughter and of sorrow.
All the while the night becomes darker
and yet, there wasn't a sense of tomorrow.

We decided to drive to the beach to unwind.
The stars were bright and endless; a way to unbind
our tangible selves from the frivolities of life.
It didn't matter how insignificant we really are;
we'll heal, we'll grow, we'll walk the north star.

Separate, but equal beds, we laid.
Asking the most random of questions,
a fetal vulnerability began to be displayed.
Ultimately, we solidified the charade that
in the next life, I'm a dolphin and she, a mermaid.

The following day, I was awoken by a pillow hitting my face.
I didn't want her to leave so I suggested lunch, she agreed.
Lesson learned: it's easy to pick a place when you erase your birthplace.
Initially, I thought our little muse would then diffuse,
but as fate would have it, we oozed blood from fresh tattoos.

I could divulge more details about our adventures,
but I'd have to ask how much time do you have
because condensing the stories won't do you any justice.
Instead, I'd rather discuss my emotions I didn't think were possible
for I have sailed motions of uncharted oceans.

There was once a time where my heart turned icy.
Even though life experiences shot me the **** up,
the "beating" trophy only seemed to thaw.
I picked at straws to apply a healing salve
to revitalize the tender, raw tragic flaws.

I've done plenty wrong in what I consider another lifetime.
I try to make amends for what I've done or what I might do.
Perhaps it's the guilt that's deeply rooted
or maybe it's the love I have for humanity to be saved.
Some would say idealistic, others call it being depraved.

Despite it all, she saw right through my thorns
and thus her walls soon became worn and torn.
My heart wasn't mourned, she held it close to hers,
to be forever adorn. That's when I knew I was home;
for she is my Unicorn.

Wanderer with no name, intentions deemed unclear.
A purpose in life, near impossible to satisfy;
To stand tall amongst peers,
To wipe those faltered tears
and above all, find solace in all fears.

This drifter long forgot his name,
so dead set on his goal,
he locked away all inner conflicts,
forbidding the pleasures of being human that
even a ditch digger couldn't dig a bigger hole.

The Wanderer must be a beacon of hope
for those not strong to bear their weight,
he chose this selfless fate,
fully knowing no one else should,
but rather understanding he could.

To those who have cracked under pain:
blood, tears, mascara, any stain,
know that this drifter is coming for you
to pick you up off the dirt with a simple hand
and carrying you where you used to stand.

There will come a time when this drifter
shall sit down and tackle his own fears,
but in a world that needs guidance,
he cannot afford to lose sight
on ending the darkness with his light.

Wanderer, remember who you were and who you are.
For you have traveled for so long and so far.
Remove those dusty boots by the hearth and lay down
because your own name still has yet to be found.

Those entryways, the abrupt angled hallways, the familiar loose doorknob,
no longer feels like a home, but a hulking shell of empty memories.
The once shiny portraits of smiling kin are now caked with grime
while the coffee table is layered with dust denoting the time.
Cracks litter the kitchen countertop as if in reference to European trade routes.
The walk-in closet is still busted, just how Father intended.
In a past life time, the blood stains were thought to be wine,
but you can’t expect someone to consider that the house is covered with spills.

Eventually, they came..
Standardized outfits. Golden stars. Ranged enforcement. Stone cold faces.
They abducted the younglings, on the premise of humanly love,
fully expecting the backlash of threats, screams, and tears.
That was when the memories began to fade; the ties to bloodlines had all, but evaporate. A new last name and a new house,
but nothing could resemble the home that was lost: the various “wine” stains..

They were the closest thing I could remember of my Mother.

Things aren't the same as they once were.
Perverted, our connection, you and I
due to the nature of an incident I procurred.
I miss the endless adoration once pure,
now muddled with a **** up and a "bottom's up!"
I raised the glasses, the bottles, the steins,
witholding truth, I ended with a bolsterous hiccup.
I laid in bed that night, in a drunken stupor,
covering my cold body with a sheet that lied,
hoping to move past so I shan't become part of a looper.
Alas, all was finally revealed and I to blame.
A fool to follow the masses, I couldn't find my own ground.
I should've fought harder, but now, I only feel shame.
I tried to embrace for that's all I knew what to do,
She shoved me into a wall, tears trickle down her face,
And all those barriers that I once broke down,
are now being rebuilt in what feels like the original place.

I don't know what to do.
I've lost all the trust.
Actions over words, she says.
Hit, Stay, or Bust.
I'm trying, lord knows I'm trying,
but in the dead of night,
when no one can hear,
I sit in the bathroom,
failing at holding back all those tears.
"I'm sorry, babe, I'm sorry."
Those words mean nothing now.
Words. Can't. Fix. Everything!

She loves me, which is why she stayed,
giving me a chance to fix the error of my ways.
She musters a smile, but I know that heart of hers is frayed,
but I'll find a way to prove to her that I am what I say:
The man she fell in love with, built on promises of old,
And if I may be so bold when I say, that I promise
our little sweet peas, will learn from this story and uphold,
the honor I had to fight for, and the lesson I had to be told.

I should've seen this coming; I guess it was an inevitable moment.
The time has come where my most trusted friend,
my pen, refuses to listen. It's booming, vibrant voice soon turned
to fearful whispers and from there, only a solemn silence.
I stare at my Pilot G-2, longing for extravagant inspiration,
but the sudden rush of ideas only completes a stanza.
It's desperation at its most figurative finest; a hand reaching
out into the void, fully knowing that nothing can clasp your
callous laden palm. This is when the blank sheets sing victory
for they no longer have to feel my ritualistic, linguistic carvings
upon their soft skin. It's a bittersweet feeling to desire defilement
on a clean page, all on the premise of conveying my *******, since
it's the only "person" who can listen. I'm sorry, Paper. It's not your fault that I dump my problems on you.

I'm just a sick ****.