The poet sighed,
took out paper and pen
and waited for inspiration to come.
Nothing.
He stared at the blank page
for hour after hour,
like every day
for the last month,
nothing came to him.
“There is no poetry in my anymore.”
he mumbled weakly,
as if there were not strength in him,
but he hurled the pen across the room
hard enough to gouge the wall.
He got up, went about his day,
he had a lot of things to do,
later, he took up the paper and pen again.
“There is no more poetry in the world.”
he wrote, the words scrawled
untidily across the page,
“No more words
of love or passion,
no more pretty phrases.”
He went on at length,
describing his lack of feelings,
his inability to express his pain.
After a couple of pages he paused,
with a steeling breath
he went on.
“I’ve found a way out
of the pit I’m trapped in,
this empty, emotionless void.”
“I cannot make it out myself,
I will need a ladder.”
“A ladder is a wonderful device,
able to help mankind
rise above troubles,
to lift them up
when their own abilities
fail.”
He put his pen down,
walked out to his garage,
in there, he looked upon the ladder
he had placed under his way out,
a noose.
He stood there for a moment,
thinking about his lack of feeling,
his failures,
the people that betrayed him.
He looked down at the pages in his hand,
placed them carefully on the workbench,
the would be found there,
read and examined.
Thereafter people would understand
why he took this route,
why he could no longer cope
with his inability to write.
He climbed the ladder,
put his head in the noose,
his portal out of the pit.
He stopped for a moment,
looked down at the pages,
then it hit him.
These pages he had written
were his finest writing in months,
perhaps in his life.
Thinking about what he wrote
he realized,
there was the emotion he hadn’t felt,
the words that wouldn’t come.
Startled by the revelation
he stepped back,
off the ladder,
his mind ablaze with ideas.
But the noose, that was his way out of pain,
was still around his neck.
As he hung there,
helpless,
slowly fading away,
he cursed himself.
Why hadn’t he paused
at the base of the ladder,
reread the pages he carried.
Now, it was too late,
everything he still had within him
would die with him.
People would read his words
and never know,
that he had found his voice again,
had come to understand
that numbness and pain
don’t last.
They would read his words
and think less of him.
As these thoughts faded
and darkness claimed him
a single tear crept down his cheek.
A final testament
that he had,
in the end,
regained his humanity.
But sadly,
it would dry and disappear,
long before he was found.

He looked around his lonely room,
everything seemed the same as always.
The walls were still in need of new paint,
the former light blue, now faded,
to the color of sadness.
“I’m dreaming.” he said aloud,
startling himself,
the words were spoken
before he fully realized the thought.
Once spoken, however,
there was no denying their truth.
He had no idea how he had come
to this revelation,
he still felt the same,
there were no telltale signs
hidden about the room.
Yet, he still knew that he was dreaming,
as sure as he knew he was trapped here.
This thought startled him as well,
and again, the truth of it
was not to be denied.
He walked to the door, still wondering
how he could be so sure this was a dream
when everything seemed so perfectly normal.
He reached for the doorknob,
as his hand closed on it
a mental voice spoke up,
with perfect certainty.
“This is not the way out.”
He tried the door anyway
but the **** wouldn’t turn,
the door remained fast.
There was no lock on this door,
this was fact, immutable,
yet the door couldn’t be opened.
He pounded on it in frustration,
to no avail.
The sound was dull, muted,
and there was no response
from elsewhere in the house.
Not that he had expected one,
he lived alone,
and that fact remained as true
as everything else in this dream.
He turned away from the door,
walked over to one of the windows,
again, the voice in his mind spoke.
“This is not the way out.”
Sure of what would happen,
he tried the window,
it would not open.
He looked out, there was his back yard,
as real and as in need of attention as ever.
He picked up a chair, swung it at the window,
his frustration and growing fear
adding force to the blow.
The chair rebounded, fell to the floor,
with the same muted noise
as his pounding on the door.
The window remained, pristine.
He paused for a moment,
his breath rasping in his throat,
he strove to find his center, his calm.
There had to be a way out,
he only needed to think clearly
to find it.
He reached for his cell phone,
again, that ****** inner voice spoke.
“This is not the way out.”
He tried the phone anyway, no service,
he had never had reception problems in here before.
In rage and fear, he hurled the phone at the wall,
watched it shatter and fall to the floor
in a pile of jagged pieces,
all with the same muted sound.
Immediately he regretted it,
he wore no watch
and there were no clocks in his room,
his phone was the only way
he had to check the time.
He glanced at the shelf
where he always kept his phone,
there it was, sitting where it belonged.
Quickly he turned back to where he had thrown it,
there was no mark on the wall,
no pile of debris on the floor.        
He understood.
This was a dream,
his mind created it, his mind could change it.
He willed the windows to fly open,
nothing happened.
He gathered himself,
focused all his will on the door unlocking,
it remained stuck, unmoving.
Trying to shut out his growing fear and anger
he attempted to will an exit to appear.
He looked around, no new doors,
no opening in the walls, or mystical portal.
Then he saw it, on his nightstand,
sitting on his nightstand
that only moments before
held nothing but a book and a lamp,
was a gun.
He reached for it, hesitated,
that mental voice came again.
“This, is the way out.”
So it had come to this,
he should have known.
It had been on his mind for weeks,
his subconscious had made the decision
that his waking mind could not.
All his fear, rage, and frustration left him,
he picked up the gun,
marveling at how right it felt in his hand.
Briefly, he wondered if it’s sound
would have the same muted quality
that everything else had.
Then, he pointed it at his temple
and left the room.

See the old lady
sitting alone at her table,
an empty sketchpad before her.
She gently folds her hands
and closes her eyes briefly.
Perhaps she's waiting for inspiration,
or merely praying that her arthritic hands
will do what she wants this time.
She picks up a stubby pencil
in her gnarled hands
and begins to draw.
It almost seems as if she's sketching randomly,
a line here, a curve there,
nothing connected.
Although her hand shakes
and her brow furrows
the pencil never stops
its slow travel around the page.
Slowly an image takes place,
a face.
At first glance, it's not a pleasant face,
cold eyes and an tight mouth,
drawn with short, sharp lines.
The woman signs the picture at the bottom,
and writes two words at the top,
"My Daughter".
With a sigh she sets down the pencil,
rubs her hands to ease the stiffness.
She looks down at what she's drawn and smiles.
Now the face doesn't seem so harsh,
there are traces of warmth in the eyes.
Faint traces of a smile
at the corners of the mouth,
and in the artist's face,
more than a trace of love.
As she stands, the phone rings,
she answers to hear her daughter's voice.
"Mom, I was just thinking of you."
Sometimes traces can run deep.

The sun had been shining
as I pulled up the driveway,
but as I parked and got out of my car
a cloud crossed over the sun.
The sudden shadow
threw a chill over me
as I approached the front door
and fumbled in my pocket for keys
to the house.
I crossed the threshold,
closed the door behind me,
a crash of thunder
overpowered the sound
of the latch hitting home.
I looked around the front hall,
getting familiar,
I had never been here before.
The house was massive,
a mansion built back
when the word mansion meant something.
But the house had been empty for years,
its beauty faded over time,
the tattered remnants of its former glory
lying scattered at my feet.
I almost wept.
Somehow, the faded curtains,
the broken and dust covered furniture,
saddened me more
than all the sappy movies I had ever seen,
tore at my heart more
than all the stores of lost love I had ever read.
Outside, the rain began,
as if in tandem with my mood.
I could hear it tapping on the roof,
see it rolling down the windows,
but there were no leaks,
the ceiling remained dry.
Old and worn, but not yet broken,
there was still a bit of life
to this place.
I grabbed my bags, found my way upstairs,
found a bedroom, thickly covered with dust.
This would do for tonight,
I was too tired to clean,
the morning would be soon enough.
It was still fairly early
but it had been a long day
of driving to get here,
and the storm outside darkened the sky,
making it hard to see.
There was no electricity here,
and the realty company hadn’t bothered
with upkeep for a long time.
Nobody was interested in buying this place,
which why they were thrilled
to let me have it for the weekend,
the first perspective buyer
in a decade or more.
In the dust and premature gloom
I unrolled my sleeping bag,
getting ready to pass the night,
here in this dark, dank, room,
in this old, run-down house
the size of a small motel.
I suddenly realized,
I had no idea why I was here,
why I had felt drawn to this place
from the moment I heard about it.
All I knew, is that I had been compelled to come,
and once here,
felt more at home than I had in years.
Lighting flashed occasionally
outside the window,
often enough to allow me to see what I was doing
without resorting to the lantern I had brought.
As the storm continued outside
the storm within my soul
settled for the first time,
and I slept.
Sometime later, I have no idea what time,
time didn’t seem to have meaning here,
I woke, there had been a noise.
Outside the bedroom door,
a footstep,
but that was impossible,
I was the only one here.
My mind raced,
could the reality company have sent somebody?
Possibly to check on me?
I doubted it,
nobody would come here.
Maybe, this was it,
what I had heard about,
the reason this place was empty.
The footsteps stopped,
the doorknob rattled,
I lied back down, closed my eyes,
tried to slow my ragged breathing,
my rapid heartbeat.
The door opened,
I wanted to look, didn’t dare,
I waited, for what though,
I had no idea.
Then, my blanket was pulled up
tight against my chin,
and I felt a cool hand smooth my hair.
That was it, somehow I knew,
whatever had been there was gone.
This is what I had heard about,
the ghost that still walked this place.
This is why nobody would buy this place,
nobody would even step inside.
The stories of how the ghost
would terrorize anyone
who spent the night,
the ghost that drove people away.
I had been drawn here,
without knowing why,
and it seemed I was accepted here as well.
There was no more sleep for me that night,
not from fear of my ghostly visitor,
but because my mind was filled with plans.
Plans for buying this place,
the price, after years of desertion was reasonable,
and plans for restoration.
For the first time in years
I looked forward to the future,
I hadn’t know it when I heard about this place,
nor when I first walked in it,
but I had found here,
what I needed most of all.
I have found here,
a home.

Every time I went to the bar, I saw him sitting there.
It didn’t matter what day it was,
didn’t matter if it was early or late.
The same man was sitting in the same spot, alone.
Some days he was nursing a beer,
other days he’d be sipping coffee,
but every day he’d be sitting there, alone.
I never heard him speak a word,
the bartender would bring him a new drink
when his was empty, he’d pay and leave a tip,
all without speaking.
There were times I’d feel compelled to speak to him,
make small talk, try to draw him out of his shell.
But, somehow, I could never bring myself to.
Maybe it was because he never looked at people,
not even when the bar was crowded,
or when someone bumped into him.
Maybe it was the look on his face,
neither smiling nor frowning, utterly blank.
Even thought I could never speak to him
I looked for him every time I was there.
Eventually I noticed, he didn’t just sit,
he was writing in a notebook.
Not constantly, he’d sit, stare off into space for a while,
then pick up his pencil, write furiously for a moment,
then stare off into space again.
Once noticed, the notebook was as constant as he,
a thick, five subject notebook, looking battered and worn.
When I first noticed it, he was barely a fourth
of the way into it.
Watching him became kind of an obsession,
I felt drawn, compelled.
Sometimes I would walk past him,
try to see what he was writing,
I never could.
Some nights he’d only fill a page or two,
other nights, whatever muse inspired him
led him to fill a dozen or more.
As time went by I watched him progress,
slowly, but steadily through his notebook.
Halfway, three quarters,
until one night, he reached the end.
My curiosity was still burning,
maybe he had just finished
the next great American novel,
or maybe a screenplay
that I’d soon be paying to see.
Even more than that, I wondered,
now that his project was done,
would he become sociable?
He waved away the bartender, who was approaching,
a fresh drink in his hand.
He sat and stared for a moment,
then wrote a brief something
on the inside of the back cover.
With that, he closed the notebook,
placed his mechanical pencil on the top of it,
placed it gently, almost reverently, and stood.
I watched him walk out the door,
wondering if I’d see him the next time I came out,
perhaps with a new notebook.
When I looked back at this seat,
I saw that he had forgotten his notebook.
I grabbed it, rushed out the door,
hoping to catch him, to give it to him.
When I got out the door, he was nowhere to be seen.
I was about to head back inside, leave it at the bar.
I was sure he’d be back for it soon.
I paused with my hand on the door, battling with myself.
I wanted to look inside, see what he had written,
yet I knew it was private,
he had never shown it to anyone.
I ended up taking it home, unopened.
I figured I’d return the next night, give it to him.
I’d assure him that I didn’t read it, and then maybe,
maybe he’d tell me what it was.
But when I returned the next night, he wasn’t there.
I left my name and number with the bartender,
said to have him call me if he came looking for it.
A week went by, with no call.
I returned to the bar but he wasn’t there,
the bartender told me that he hadn’t been in
since that last time I had seen him there.
I couldn’t believe it,
I was sure that the notebook was very important to him,
and said as much to the bartender.
As I said this, there was a tap on my shoulder,
I turned to see a guy that I had seen at the bar before,
seen him, but had never spoken with him.
“You must be talking about Peter, always sat right there.”
He pointed to the writer’s usual spot, and I nodded.
“Sorry to tell you this, but he’s dead.
Hung himself about a week ago.”
He walked away and I left the bar,
unsure of how to feel.
I got home, picked up the notebook,
it seemed to weigh a hundred pounds.
I wondered if it was the loss of the notebook
that had driven him to suicide.
I disregarded that thought,
he hadn’t even come back that night,
to look for it.
I put the notebook down on my nightstand, still unopened.
I had trouble trying to sleep,
feeling more grief than was warranted,
after all, I had never spoken with him.
Mixed with the grief, was guilt,
maybe if I had spoken, had reached out...
Finally, I fell into a restless sleep,
riddled with half-formed nightmares.
I woke early the next morning, not rested,
the notebook sill on my nightstand
where I had left it.
I picked it up, considered throwing it away,
after all, it wasn’t mine.
But instead, I sat on my bed and opened it.
His penmanship was neat, precise,
almost too tiny to read.
The first page was simple, a list,
titled “The List of My Regrets”.
Nothing shocking in the list, no major sins or crimes.
Friends he didn’t believe,
people he never got to know better,
women he never asked out.
The next page he had doodled on,
a series of geometric shapes, some simple,
some complex, others placed just so,
to form a stark face.
I flipped through the pages, reading some,
skimming others, a third of the way in
I found a poem.
There was more raw emotion on this page
then I had felt in my entire life.
The poem was about love,
and all the expected images were there,
but somehow he had constructed it in such a way
that reading it saddened me nearly to the point of tears.
There were other poems, as I worked my way through the notebook,
even some short stories.
Some pages only had a few words written,
but even these sparse entries had a feeling of finality, of completeness.
Even though everything I had read gave the feeling
of rightness, some sort of unexplained symmetry,
the tone kept growing darker, more somber,
as I neared the end.
The last poem, on the last page, written on his last night alive,
made me weep with it’s simple purity.
“A life filled with loneliness warms nobodies soul.”
The last line of his last poem.
I felt more guilt now than ever, if I had tried,
maybe I could have made a difference.
Maybe I could have eased his loneliness,
warmed his soul,
saved his life.
Then I read what he had jotted down,
on the inside of the back cover,
the last thing he had ever written.
Just three lines.
“I know you’ll take this notebook
and I want you to know,
it’s not your fault.”