Run, Rabbit, run—
Reap what you sow.
Run, Rabbit, run—
Follow the river’s flow.
Run, rabbit run—
Just like a gun!
Run, Rabbit, run—
Shadows closin' tight,
With a hunger for a bite.

Run, Rabbit, run—
Before the Raven
Finds your casket.
Run, Rabbit, run!
The Sun will guide you.
Run, Rabbit, run—
Before the Hunter
Strikes down!
Run, Rabbit, run—
Before time runs after you!
Run, Rabbit, run—
Down the river,
wild and wide,
Through midnight’s mellow song,
dark and long—
Yet all paths twist and lead you back
To the tangled track,
the final fight,
To the fading song,
to the edge of night,
where the Hunter hides—
in plain sight.

The Sun dies
And the Moon rises high.
Dark dead trees dancing away
To the mellow song.
Crows singing through the darkened
forest of dusk.
The Foolish Dreamers follow the path.
Where lies the Hunter,
who lives near Blood Orange Valley,
Where the wind of feared children screams
in pain for peace as the sun bleeds
against the cut fields.

The Hunter lives in the forest
amongst the Shadows of Judgement.
He wears a hollow mask of a bear,
To scare the Spirits away who tear the
face of a Castaway, covered with scars.
A teeth of the beast,
Worn to be protected of fear from afar.
Striking down the dead trees,
His axe raised high,
shoulders heavy as stone,
Each swing echoes,
a crack through the bones
Of diseased trees and roots
of Blood Orange Valley,
to clear the path for the feared ones who suffered.
Fur boots crunch the ground paths
as he voyages forever more.

The Valley bleeds red,
The Hunter’s own scar
runs deep in the dead forest.
The Valley and he,
both carved by memories.
He carries the tokens of broken luck,
Mementos of fallen dreams that scream.
He listens to the song sparrow echoing,
Of the long river flow to follow the path of Hope,
whispering stories of ancient fights,
lost hopes, and strange, forgotten nights.
To this day, the wind hums the heartbeat drums in
Blood Orange Valley,
where lies the Hunter who hunts for Hope.

Each time I’m talking to you,
It feels like walking blindfolded
Through a minefield.
You never care how I feel.
One wrong move and I’m
Thrown on the wheel of misfortunes,
knives hurled at me as I spin
with one sentence:
“I love you”—

Got me weak like kryptonite,
I’ll admit, but that was a lie
and you never meant it.
You tricked me two times,
I’ve gotten attached to your false love,
Caught a disease of heartache,
and end up with rabies filled with
memories I wished I’ve forgotten.
It’s like tossing a grenade at a relationship
that will soon sink like a shipwreck,
drowning in the ocean in bitter,
cold emotions I still hold.

You said to me you hate me,
Told me it’s too late for apologies,
But now you’re calling me at night
because you want me back?

Your love was always fake,
Suffocating me in my mistakes.
Afraid to lose you,
You never really wanted to make amends,
You want me to entertain you
With a show while you complain and say:
“You’re the problem” and how I can’t solve them.

Talking to you,
Feels like taking pills that
will **** me sooner or later.  
Your hollow apologies echo with
Empty words dressed up
in cheap disguise,
Choking me with more lies.
I apologize if I hurt you
but I don’t want to forgive you—
I want to forget you.

I haven’t written this **** yet so here we go…
It hits me every time I sit on a red couch.
Sometimes I wanna gouge my eyes out.
Sometimes I feel sick.
I used to be surrounded with comfort
Against the fabric.
Now it brings in dead torture.
Once, I had a friend I used to like…
Or so I thought…
You see?
I regret tellin’ him I liked him,
More than friends.
Shouldn’t cuddle with him,
or hold his hand…
Or lean in to kiss him.
But I was in the moment.
My heart skipped a beat when he said
“I love you”.

Now it goes from a “I love you” to a
“I didn’t wanna hurt you the same with Ethan”
Which left me bitter and broken.
I don’t hate him because
he made a promise he couldn’t keep.
I mean I wish I’d forget this ever happened.
He said something that made me not trust again.
He leaned in after the kiss and whispered
“If you want me to let go, that’s fine,
but if you don’t say anything,
I won’t let go of you.”
I hate him now because I hate believing it.
I hate myself.
I realized I was an act for his entertainment
Of his loneliness.
He left me on silent for a while after.
So I cut the thread and left the moment dead.
Leaving that red couch cold.

Oh, Hello!
I’m stuck in a ****** asylum
for the mental abused, freaks,
and drug needles that doctors use.
Hollow halls filled with the white voids
of nothingness,
Swallowing white pills to solve my mental problem,
seeing tall shadows that follow me every corner of these walls.
Trapped in the narrow room of the mental prison.
Each day, I wait for freedom
as the time is tickin’,
eatin’ every moment in this room.
I see the broken people walkin’ in crooked ways,
Talkin’ in crooked riddles and rhymes
of wise nonsense about their fractured realities.
Wearing blue gowns to cover their skeletal bodies
filled with scars,
Haunting the hospital rooms with the screams of…
Well, screams--
Or something worse.
The doctors assume they’re insane,
but really they’re in pain.
Those doctors are the ones crazy.
They think the ones broken
are psychos.
I ask for help,
they neglected me—
As I rot in the cell of the asylum
with these broken memories.
Even the dream of hope is locked up
in chains.


Time ticks and I feel like a freak.
They feed me venom through my veins,
Keep me up at night with horrible screams
of pain through my prison.
Time ***** me and I feel like a freak.
I feel hidden and trapped in my burden walls
And I can’t escape.
I wrote poems full of fractured nonsense
of my reality that turns into fantasy
for the shadows that see it.
All I wanted to be is a poet…
To speak the truth…
To be freed and loved…
Now I’m buried in the ****** asylum in
my own head again.
Here, even the dream of hope is locked up
in chains.

I burry myself with the anger. 
Hang myself with the same problems 
with a hanger. 
Go out with a banger, 
but every time I do,
I fall flat get my mouth slap 

Then I get kicked out and spit on. 
Then I blame myself with the anger, 
set myself up in flames.
Throwin’ hate in my name, 
lookin at myself in the reflection, 
aim at my direction, 
shoot at my perception with shame. 

Then I go insane, 
throwin myself in a hurricane, 
my life is a train reck, 
I try to maintain, 
meanwhile I’m entertaining a crowd that complains, 
my brain is a stage that’s set aflame, 
chained up with sorrows and pain of no hope I wanna let go,
Why can’t I let go..? 
I’m chained up with no hope, 
It’s been eight chapters full of anger 
and no hope, 
I rather let go and gather myself 
with my fracture heart that still bleeds, 
Please let me go

As many artists say,
They have one thing in common.
They try to live to the fullest moment.
By that, they live in their own agony.
They let themselves almost get killed
By their own art just to get the voices out.
Critics leaving voicemails of death threats
under the beds in their heads.
Following a spiral stairwell down to hell.
Getting Inspired by the worst current events.
The artist never let themselves think.
Thinking might just let them sink underneath
their dreams,
Feeling unheard.

For a painter,
they just throw ink and splatter paint
onto a canvas full of bright and dark colors.

For a rapper,
they rap in rhymes and rhythm
full of realism.
They’re not just trying to be a spokesman,
they’re just a broken person carrying a mic
full of mistaken burdens over a mountain.
Leading them in a journey for Hope.

Poets and writers are rotten in a mental prison
with a journal filled with poems and written chapters
they write while they fight and ****
the devil with a pencil in their mind
throughout the night.

Actors actin’
on a part that they don’t even recognize,
But they can entertain an audience with a smile
and a good show.
Their whole life is a stage to them.
Even when curtains close,
you never know the real them
because they’re going with the flow,
playing their parts.

Without using our tragedy as art to tell stories
Is like saying a painter with no paintbrush,
canvas or paint color.
A rapper with no beat, rhythm or rhyme.
Getting lost in the path of no hope.
A writer with no crow and no Idea what to write.
It’s just pointless without a pencil and no demons to fight.
An actor not knowing how to act in their part
of a bitter situation.

How can I use art to stitch up
my heart with a thread that would soon fall again?
How can I be the artist if I can’t be a realist
and speak my mouth out with the hardest subjects
and darkest moments
that will soon have the crooked man ******
me in my sleep?