We wrote a
chapter together…
Once a story of happiness—
soon foreshadowing
what’s now a tragic
epilogue of heartache.

A haunting tale of
A broken connection
sinking in the ocean…
inky quotes
Stabbed my heart
Open with
illusions:

“I love you…”
“I promise…”
“I HATE YOU!”

The weight of cold,
bitter emotions—
etched into the pages
of an unforgiving lie,
and moments
full of regret.
I’d wish
I could
forget you.

You wanted to
write a new chapter,
but I’ve already closed
the book,
left it on the shelf…
where I found you

To forgive you
Is like playing
Russian Roulette.
A fifty-fifty bet
With one bullet—
Harsh moments
loaded In the barrel of
a silver revolver,
Aiming at my heart,
Still wanting to
forgive you—
Trust you even…

Will it end me,
send me to the coffin
of regret?
Or click away
into nothing?
Tension ticking…

When you called me,
Saying you’re sorry,
I felt so mixed up
in my emotions—
drowning me
with this question...

Do I gamble my life?
Spin the chamber
of hope,
take the shot,
And see what happens
when I forgive you?

Or do I leave the gun
on the table,
Turn my back,
walk away—
and forget you…
Forever?

I,
The Sage fool,
Am trapped
in a birdcage
Of lies,
Aged away
in this wooden
stage,
left to decay
As I entertain
The ones who complain,
The ones who don’t know
When the curtains close,
I go into rage—
Because I can’t get help
When I hate myself.

Memories inked
in bleeding words,
Filling every page,
Ready to fleet away.
A chapter of stories I keep,
hidden deep in the
basement mind,
worsened everyday
With unkind echoes
As I listened.

While I,
The Wise Fool,
Forced to wear
A fool’s masked grin
to deceive,
To hide what’s real in me—
Like a trick up my sleeve.
Used my talent
To inspire the
ignorant—
They **** my hope,
Shove a bitter
pill of judgement
down my throat
To keep me on silence,
Yet I still stand.

I am the fool,
The entertainment,
I am the sage,
A wisdom they fear
but never lamented.

I’m the fool
With a smile,
But throughout
my wise miles
I played their games,
My wisdom blazes in
their mocking flames.

It’s so tragic—
The Sleepy boy turns into a Sick Boy,
He vanished just like magic.
The clock ticks,
Locked up in bed with chains,
Almost dead in his head with
toxic coughs and sneezes that clogs
His heart that shiver cold chills down his spine.
Eating some blue,
yellow and purple pills on Friday
just to ease the pain,
But the migraine misfits
Kept cutting the wires and killin’ his brain,
makin’ him brain-dead tired at home.
Meanwhile
I’m sitting here against the window alone
in the unknown,
With one empty brown chair across,
Writing a poem to the Sleepy Boy
who’s gone.

So if you’re readin’ this,
Hope you feel better,
Sleepy Boy,
Cuz we miss you--
I guess I miss you…

Sleepy boy,
Stuck in a dreamy story
In his head as he lies
in his bed of reality,
Seeing the sun
Set and the moon rise,
Feeling trippy in the skies
of his mind,
Where wild imagination
flutter in beauty like butterflies,
and thoughts trapped in a dark forest
of scary nightmares.
haunted by the hollow shadows
that follow,
Whispering regrets and mistaken burdens
he can’t forget.
Making him not sleep,
becoming lost in the deep
Darkness of insomnia.

Sleepy boy,
Always tired,
Eyes wrinkled in borrowed time,  
Coffee smell dances in the air of dusk,
trying to wake him to dreams
he can never quite reach.
Near and far in the hilltops,
Where stars once
sparkled and lingered in dusk,
Glimmering dreams.

Sleepy boy,
The blanket is a map
that guides him comforts
in his journey through
the cold dark nights,
The wind hums a mellow lullaby.
Follow the heartbeat drums,
And it will show you
The hidden path of Peace

Sleepy boy,
Rest will come when night’s anew,
Till then, push through, wander on,
dreams in view,
promise to bloom like flowers
under the morning hours.

There lies
A Storyteller
of the mountains,
Seeking for answers
from the Hills of Guidance,
Yet finding only darkened paths.

He tells a tale—
threads of what
once was,
weaving truths
in a voice of dead
rusts:

Silence echoes,
Forgotten souls,
Stolen Hope;
Of Fallen heroes,
And Artists and Poets
Hidden In the Ruined Roads
of the Unknown.

Then there begins the
tale of the Hunter.

Broken fragments
of a heart,
A thousand voices
Whisper in the
Bad Man’s name,
Shouting the sentence—
                              
“You must perish and
become trapped in you own
Hellish cage you’ve
once built with your hands!”

Yet he ventured onward,
through the narrow
Rivers of shame,
To the haunted fields
of blame,
Where ancient moments
The hunter holds close,
lost on a cold,
shadowed path
of mystery.

Only the Storyteller
Tells a tale of the hunter
Who hunts the
fleeting creature
of Hope…

Though the
Storyteller knows—
He once was that
fallen hero long ago.