The definition of a man to me is morally driven. For good or ill, you will stand next to your ideals with courage and certainty. You will know who you are, but not to be defined so rigidly that opposition will be met bitterly.
Flexibility is paramount.

Though I know It is not an easy thing to muster a clear head in the midst of an argument, by contrast it is far too easy to write of it. But never forget, more good comes from wit than temperament.

I do not care for the way you carry yourself.
In fact I’d prefer you to shelf any ideas of who you are meant to be. By handshake, or appearance, or by words from me.

It is a scary thing to think that the truth of who we are is solely our responsibility. But if you decide to heed any advice from me, forget who you are ideally supposed to be.

When I first met you, I thought the world of you. At least, that’s what my memories tell me. In honesty, I probably didn’t consider you as anything more than normal in the beginning. I don’t have many memories of you left, and the few I do have are rose-tinted and faded to the background of my mind, residing in my dreams, in the words I write to chase after you, to pull out a memory of when I knew who I was. Back when we were together.

The truth is, I don’t know when you left an impression on me, and I don’t know why. Maybe it was something about the idea of the outcast and the black-sheep finding happiness together that spoke to the romantic in me. Whatever it was, it was real, God knows it was real. I wrote poems for you every day, you’re the reason I started in the first place, you know? But I’ve said that before.

I think I just want to know why you stuck around so much at the end of the day. When we parted ways, you stuck around for me and I don’t know why. You’ve colored every attempt at love since, and every time I try, I have to keep telling myself that the indifference I feel when looking in the eyes of someone else, is love, but that’s a lie. Or..is it?

I don’t know. Maybe at the end of the day, I keep chasing you because I want to know it meant something. I want the story to have a happy ending because I did the right thing. So I keep going. Finding you inside of another name. So far you’ve been married happily twice, and I’m still waiting...

By right and will of ink and quill,
The young prince sits atop his gilded throne,
But when aught runs dry and naught can fill,
What can stop the thoughts alone?

Alone is he, alone am I,
Trapped inside of what it means,
To reflect upon a time,
Where I was once a better me.

Where words flowed forth like sacred wine,
And from that alter leapt great praise,
When stars saw fit then to align,
And summon the great glory days.

Who am I in place of that,
but a shadow affixed to roaring flame?
Of passions high and blazing fast,
All praise be to faded name.

A great collapse, the way of life, shall see great men fall and feeble rise. Around the wheel the cycle goes, from noble birth to battle cry. The earth is my kingdom, for  kingdom will I die. Let not my name be forgotten, my every merit in life, tied to something so repeated, it nearly loses meaning. I the great king, emperor, chief, ruler, believe my duty to be divine. I number in the thousands, but this legacy is mine.

My words are not my own, but the echoes of a man who has long since died, and left to me in his will, a blueprint for how to live his life. I’d like to tell you that this death occurred at the site of a dashed love, believe me, I would. But the fact of the matter is, I simply do not know. And the lie I have clung to these many years has grown old and tired. So instead, I will tell you the truth, or attempt to.

For the last few years, I have not felt like myself. I have begun to question who “myself” truly is. Spare me any notions of a high school grad taking a year off of their studies to find themselves, I’m aware of the parallels and I despise them. I’ve spent far more than a year in this predicament and I would wish it upon no man. Yet someone has the audacity to believe they can discover the whole of what it means to exist in a year? Let alone believe such knowledge to be a benefit to them. The very notion has me shaking my head in sympathies!

But I digress. That is what I do after all. You see I am a writer by passion, but there is the problem, passion. For nearly a decade now my writing has felt lacking, hollow. Not to others apparently, but very much so for myself. Friends and loved ones tell me I write fairly well for someone of my age, but they do not know what I do. If they were privy to how the words sound before they reach the page, if only they could see how the world looks before I touch it, they would see how truly hollow my depictions are.

This is my problem. At one point, I felt comfortable with my own skill in creating a fantastical world. Now however I feel as if I am continually attempting to build the Taj Mahal, and getting credit for building the Hagia Sophia, or is it a table from Ikea? I can never remember.

Friends! Drunken-men! Lend me your beers!
Let not the woes of day to day,
Drive all hope of toast away,
And raise to me,
Your younger kin,
Your glass of beer or shot or toniced gin,
And I will count you as a friend in this, the greatest of places!

From dreams to sleep she drifts between,
Where visions dance of what has been,
In symbols marked by fates decree,
What strange things will she see?

Visions of old, or something new?
Connected thoughts of me and you?
Under light of lonely moon,
Bathed in pale and longing hue.

Or maybe wild chaotic fun?
Dancing with fairies to belief of none,
Perhaps there she’ll meet a king,
Both proud and twisted, a scheming thing.

And there they strike a bargain deal,
To a baser nature will he appeal,
To make a star of boring youth,
And place her next to lonely moon.

All to wish that she had not,
As lovely dreams are all but lost,
And in their place a nightmare state,
As startled sound jolts her to wake.

For hours there she longs and yearns,
For land of dreams to please return,
She thinks of him, the fairy king,
And casts aside the suffering,

Surely it was only dream,
You can’t make real a mythic thing,
Hours pass and she ventures back,
To the wonder of a dancing pack.

Around a throne of golden trim,
They make a play at behest of him,
They pause at her, but carry on.
For none dare cross great Oberon.

She takes a step and suddenly,
From behind a curtain she bounds and leaps.
“Great fairy king, ‘tis I you seek,
For a hand in marriage I offer thee.”

As if compelled she speaks the words,
With puzzled look as they are heard,
And walks onto the center stage,
As other actors seemed to fade.

All at once both there and gone,
Appears the great king Oberon,
To take her hand and lead away,
As per the deal that there was made.

An instant passed and there they were,
Amongst the stars above the earth,
And with a smile the king declared,
“Let no one say I am not fair.”

She cried in fear and looked around,
But from her lips there came no sound,
Too late she saw what she’d become,
A star opposed to glowing sun.

All to wish that she was not,
As lovely dreams had all been lost,
And in their place a nightmare state,
As startled sound jolts her to wake.

She looked up then towards the sky,
To catch a twinkling in her eye,
A lone star she’d never seen,
Had taken place where none had been.

For hours there she longed and yearned,
For land of dreams to please return,
She thought of him, the fairy king,
But cast aside her suffering,

Surely it was only dream?
You can’t make real a mythic thing!
Hours pass and she ventures back,
To the wonder of a dancing pack.

It is that same optimistic pessimism. That ephemeral, translucent feeling..which gives me life and meaning. When taken to the extreme, the world becomes cold. Everything fades. Who I am ceases to be, and in my place, a force of absolute clarity emerges, in the realization that in the grand scheme, nothing matters.

I have witnessed this happen. I have watched myself die. Time and time again have I, sat back and wondered why it is that I cannot stop this sequence of events,
  from unfolding in front of me. When clarity strikes and I realize that the man I have been does not matter anymore, just as before,
I wonder,
Why?

I have talked to my fellow man on the subject. I have come to know their mannerisms, their discomforts, their quieted discussions hushed for fear that insanity looms, and I have grown to assume the worst of them..that in the end, most are blind to the truth of these deaths.

Subtle in nature and slow in their pace, these key moments race to define who we are by summarizing who we have been up to the point of contact with them. From that point of derision, a part of our life is forever etched in memory, wether we remember or not.

After a period of time, who we are can no longer be defined by any measure of who have been. We are a collection of key moments, fractures and schisms form the face for what we have become. In the end, a personality template, made whole by the mention of a few distant names, certain days are remembered forever, while others fade away into obscurity.

We are nothing but the deaths of who we once were, compounded from birth to keep us interesting.

It used to be that I could write of love when I knew you, but the truth is those feelings are gone. Long buried in years of hate, in a state I don’t understand. Without you by my side, I don’t know who I am. A god with no muse, now simply a man.

In all my hollow glory, I venerate your chapter in the story with such reverence. I remark on your commitment to togetherness with an asterisk, and leave a footnote in the margins that reads, “Meaningless.”

Forgive me for saying this, I’ve lost my way, clearly. Please, let me rephrase...

My dear angel, it’s been several years since a difference of opinion has left us divided. In all that time, I’ve decided to write you and say, I’m sorry for the way we ended. Far be it from me to build our love upon a foundation which was honesty dependent..I’ve learned the error of my ways.

Which is to say, that “I love you” has become a hollow thing, sweet to be sure, but a sweet nothing all the same. So I will remember you with nothing, and leave you on those words, I love you.

Simply,
A man.

Expectation is the enemy of perfection,
A natural expression of idle curiosity.
And I have felt that need **** me years ago,
For I am a poet, as a poet I am known.

And this carries with it a certain expectation,
Which over the years has slowly grown,
That my writing should progress into perfection,
And so, is no longer my own.

And there, a poet slowly dies. Crushed under the weight of their own self-criticism. The world has robbed them of a free-moving pen, by way of expectation.

The death of such a spirit, is both subtle and moving. A nexus for emotion sapped and stomped out to the beat of life, until there is nothing left but embers, and the words which can be gleaned from a heart weighed down by expectation.

Politics is the war of words, where conceit and defeat are closer linked than kin and ties of blood. To accept peace through understanding is the mark of both a fool and a king, who’s impact is long-lasting throughout the ages.

But why accept the calming touch of tranquility, when financially, a ****** victory is worth so much more? And so the words turn to weapons more fearsome than debate,
to the elated joy of generals separate from the populace.

Who have no stake in this to claim, other than placing food upon the tables of their families, remembering proudly the name of the man that came home changed from the war, that started over nothing more than words.

Don’t you understand? It spreads. It all spreads. Your head-poison becomes mine and I’ve already had you tell me you’re going to bite the bullet, swallow that pill, at least 3 times now. And every single time you always say the same thing. You stay because of me. Because despite all the bad, I just seem to persevere and you think that’s incredible. Well what if I told you that every emotion you’re feeling right now is something I’ve already felt? The pity, the uselessness, The entrapment, the self-loathing, the hatred. And I was so young...you don’t understand, I’ve already been there, and I’m still here. Now I’m not saying I don’t have scars. I do. I’ve told people several times that I’m supposed to be a counselor or a therapist professionally, but something pulls me away from that. It’s you. Under a different name, a different face, but it’s always still you. You keep trying to bite that bullet and expecting me to pull it out. But it leaves a wound that oozes your particular brand of head-poison, and I can only come in contact with that so many times before I start feeling the effects.

But my biggest fear is that I will do that to someone else. Leave them a part of me that weighs them down forever. One of my friends recently developed anxiety you know? And I suspect in no small part thanks to me. Judging, criticizing, because I can’t handle meeting you again. Another one needs to talk, but understands the way the poison spreads, and refuses to give me more. I don’t know what I can do. I want to help. If anyone, I want to help them most of all, but they refuse. And it’s all because you didn’t understand when to stop. Now someone who actually needs my help refuses to get it because they see the mark you’ve left over the years.

There he stood with sword in hand. Looking out over the fields. He walked among them, the long departed. Checking over armor for family crests. The wealthy nobles had paid good money to guide their spirits first. Of course, he knew this was pointless. Souls go when they please, and return all the same. The issue lies with those who do not understand they are dead, or those who refuse to. A phenomenon common on the fields of battles long passed. But that did not really interest him right now.

He was looking for a Regalian surcoat, a family of some note in the border lands between the two kingdoms of Erasta and Celune, the only one with any weight in the middle-ground game of royal politics as a matter of fact. The youngest son of house Regalia, Hensen, was due home from the ****** Fields days ago. Armed with the best weapons and armor a royal name could buy, and still sent to die all the same for the gain of his father. Not that it mattered, but that wasn’t his place to say.

He searched for some hours, scanning through the corpses until finally he broke concentration with a sigh and a smile.
“Ah, there you are!” quickly he moved the bodies of the dead around him in order to make some space, carefully inspecting each one for wounds as he did so.

He pulled out an ornate flask and a small hooded lantern with a gently burning candle from his bag. “Well Hensen, today’s your lucky day!” He turned to face the others around him, “Buuuuut..you!” he said, pointing a finger at one of the solders. “You’re quite a stiff looking fellow, but remarkably well preserved considering. You’ll do nicely.” With that, he began pouring out the contents of the flask in a circle around him. Taking special care not to splash Hensen as he did so. Once 3 full circles leading to and from Hensen had been made, he placed his lantern on the body he had noted.

Once he was sure those preparations were done correctly, he pulled a flute from his pack and began to play. The somber, eerie notes of the Taker’s song rang out soundly through the fields. And in a few moments time, seemed to be joined by voices unknown, keeping the tune. To the untrained ear, this chorus would appear to have no origin, but he knew better. And as the voices grew louder and louder with the song now rapid and thunderous in nature, he let the instrument loose from his lips and held his sword at the ready. Suddenly there, a spirit came, quick as a flash and gone again. And a moment later, a burning sensation. It made the first pass. Luckily, not fatal.

It came again a second time. Though now that he was expecting the attack, not fast enough. In an instant he turned and instinctively his blade had found a fatal resting place. With a horrified look, the spirit let out the word, “Taker…” and was gone in a blink. The body of the soldier it had once belonged to now drained entirely of what little color remained as he turned to face Hensen. “Right on que.” He said as the spirit of Hensen began to flutter in and out next to the body of the soldier. For a few minutes the voices continued to sing until eventually the song came to a quiet close. And with a start, The eyes of the soldier opened.

“Welcome back Sir Hensen of Regalia. We missed you.”

What’s yours is mine,
What’s mine is mine,
Peace of mind is hard to find,
So I will give it to you,
All so we can live.
No greater use am I,
Than so great a use as this.

But to some I am defined,
By that kind of trait,
And so many of them hide,
In such a loving place,
For it seems a heart so true and kind,
Is a rarer find these days,
But I like this heavy thing,
So I will hold the weight.

And every little sin,
Shall find a hold in me,
To you I welcome in,
Everything you’ve seen,
So sit beside and tell me now,
Of bitter life,
What’s got you down?

I will in time,
Take that too,
And leave behind,
Something new,
Peace of mind,
All for you,
And maybe I,
Will have some use.

For all the want of greater men,
To hold their power as a pen,
To open history and write within,
Their name forever until the end.

It is the work of simple folk,
Who find themselves truly woke,
By flames of passion fiercely stoked,
That see their names remembered.

So to that end then no surprise,
That for all great men to arise,
An air of humbleness in life,
Must always tame those truly wise.

For all great kings can walk with men,
Of lower standing and think them kin,
And speak of things unknown to them,
Whilst keeping crown well-centered.

There you are old friend, I haven’t seen you since...how long’s it been? Doesn’t matter. You’re here again. So why don’t you pull up a seat? Please, it’s like you never left. Emptiness on tap, I cry until I’m deaf.

You thought childhood was bad? Well this **** gets worse. See I’ve been around the block now and I know how this works. You can cry as loud as you want if no one sees the hurt. And you get front row seats, VIP, for everything it’s worth.

But I’ve heard that it’s nothing, a token joke at best. This life that we’re all loving, is nothing but a guess. So don’t tell me that I’m blessed or that I have the best and biggest heart. My life’s a work of art but the canvas fell apart.

Here’s a piece for them and you, but I hate to break the news. A pictures worth a thousand words but mine aren’t any use. Since the day you left my side without a muse, my life’s passed me by, and I’m back to what I knew.

The gift in pens,
fit to ascend,
mere mortals to the mantle of the heavens,
has left me in a state of haste...to die in place of a goodbye that was never said.

And I’d say it now,
but no one is around to hear,
that could appreciate the sound like you.
In truth, my memories speak “I’m sorries” soft enough to make angles weep at what will never be heard...and my final words to you will forever be said regretfully.

Respectfully yours,
A memory.

Take a look at my history and it’s easy to see why I’m afraid of just being a bottle of pills sat next to a diary on standby, in case talking isn’t enough this time.
It all starts with the words “Don’t tell anyone else...”

Well I’ve kept up my end of the bargain. I’ve kept your secrets for you, hell I even took them with me when you were gone, and I’ll take them to my grave for you. But don’t tell me you’ll hate me, or that you’ll leave or walk away, don’t tell anyone else, but you will anyway.

Friends come and go, but please take the things you own when you leave.

Break in case of emergency,
Emotional uncertainty,
Anxiety,
A struggle with sobriety,
A squabble with the family,
Or something no one else can see,
When you need a friend for listening,
Who else to them,
But quiet me?

There are times when I doubt,
More often than I want to admit,
Whether it’s worth it to say I love you,
For the 100th time.
Because even though you’ve only heard it once,
You’re always on my mind,
And I’ve written 99 bad rhymes trying to figure out just the right way to say,
I love you.

But honestly, I feel like it loses worth the more we use those words.
From moment to moment,
Minute to minute, hour to hour,
The power of those words,
is found somewhere between often,
And never,
Just common enough to be delightful,
But rare in a way that a tactical box of chocolates and 99 bad rhymes are just clever enough to mean the world..

So I’m sorry if I try too much to make those moments perfect, but I want I love you to be worth the phrase,
And when I look at you,
I know that saying it was worth the wait.

Fanciful words fall upon a flighty pen,
If only in the moment before they are written,
This is the trial of the artist-no-more.
To know that their once treasured wordplay has failed them,
Shored-up upon the hollow recollection of an intangible dream,
And dried to ash in place of the passion which once drove them.

If all the stars in the night sky had suddenly snuffed themselves out of incompetence, we would weep..though not for those too far from reach of our eyes, the quiet ones would fade as they had always been, dimming, and forgotten.

This is the way the world views the dying gifts of a pen..through the lens of stars centuries old, still remembered in their passions. All else..forgotten by time, and destined to feel it more deeply than anyone else around them.

For the sake of my own mental case, I must brace for the fact that I lack the capacity to write like I once did..to understand that what was, cannot bare the thought of what is and visa versa, to realize quick and fast that the past for me is a curse worth breaking..because it’s making me doubt who I am.

It used to be in music. In the moments we define by how divine they are in the instant they pass..in those moments I would see..love, life, and tragedy played out before me as they have been for so many others. I began to make comparisons between the heart, the soul, the struggle for the independence of thought and the understanding that striving for freedom of self means letting others define who you will be, if only a little.

That was me then..a quiet soul among men who found great joy in describing the world with words like “soul” and “shadow.” But from my recollection, I made them sound awesome. And maybe that’s the trick, to realize that the only worth something has is that which you are willing to give, and I should strive to live every day with my best foot forward..but who am I to talk? I was never supposed to have a leg to stand on.

On this quiet day she laments. For the friends she has lost, for the hunger she now feels, for all that once made her human, it is now gone. She sits quietly staring into the pond, hoping beyond hope her own reflection would see fit to deem her an intruder and work it’s damnable curse upon her. Yet no matter how hard she tries, she still knows the freedom of movement.

3 years. It has been 3 years to the day the gods have cursed her. 3 years alone in the garden of stone, so aptly named by the few adventurers who have managed to come in and out of this place with their wonderful zeal still intact. At first she tried to converse with them, that was a mistake. Her words were drowned out by the horrible cacophony of hissing “things” that sum up everything she hates about this life, and the adventurers, being all too eager to swing a blade or mutter some incantation they picked up from who knows where, well, they just called her a monster.

Honestly, they weren’t wrong, though it was never her choice to be this way. She laughs for a moment. “No one ever chooses to be who they are.” She says to herself. But she knew what she meant, it wasn’t her fault she became the thing she is now. It was the Gods. Zeus in his **** avarice, paired with Hera’s own petty jealousy make for quite a nasty combination. How was she supposed to know it was Zeus himself tempting her? She couldn’t, there was no way. Knowing that, the punishment seemed entirely unreasonable.

Thinking that, she laughed again.
“The gods deal in the unreasonable. They made all this from nothing.”
She waited there for a moment, then set out to attend to her garden. She spends the first few hours of the day gathering white lilies and roses, there always seem to be an abundance for some reason. Then she slowly goes around to each statue in the garden, and lays them at their feet, letting out a few tears for each as she does so. “It isn’t fair that you suffered for their jealousy.” She whispers underneath her breath.

From twisting, gnawing, wrenching pain,
The doctors promised him refrain,
And from their view where patient lied,
No one knew of the metal grind.

Until he woke that dreadful day,
And in his bedroom where he lay,
He felt his tendons begin to cry,
Here comes the hell of the metal grind.

From root of bone there promised pain,
The likes not known to him again,
From each heartbeat felt before the slide,
Here comes the hell of the metal grind.

His blessing then turned into curse,
As pain to him was well-rehearsed,
So he sat awake the entire time,
To feel the hell of the metal grind.

He never knew when it would come,
And always thought that it was done,
After every stab into his side,
He feared the hell of the metal grind.

And when the cure for this was found,
The doctors surely did resound,
“Your tolerance for pain is very high!
Most would feint from the metal grind.”

And laughter rang out from their breath,
Though none from him for none was left,
And if he feels invincible for a time,
He recalls the hell of the metal grind.

I’ve spent my whole life running a rat-race and chasing deadlines without ever finding the time to live for something more.

And I try to express how upsetting this is to me in written form, but it seems the older I get, the longer I spend here, the more I second guess the words so clearly set in my
head, until there’s nothing left but something that’s already been said, and I think..“That’s not worth writing.”

So the light within me fades. Replaced by everything that used to be, accompanied by memories that once to me were comforting, but laugh at me just out of reach. I’ll never write like that again, so passionate in type of speech.

So I resign by way of pen, because I never practiced what I preach. Living here and now beats living there and then, heed my warning if you please.

In reconciliation with my own contemplation, I have to say that, life is taking me down a peg.

But I’ve tried to make the best of it, what’s left of this, a quiet voice that’s too easy to dismiss, fades into nothingness in the presence of absent love.

But it’s enough to know my thoughts are mine to keep. So when I try to speak them, rhymes come out in rhythm as a way to be defensive, dismissively accounting for every word I’m doubting, so I seem less apprehensive.

But I feel the weight of silence sometimes too much to be quiet, inner thoughts get violent when saying things I m dealing with.
“We’ve clipped your wings, it’s happening, this life’s just passing you by. We know it stings, it’s sad to see, so why do you ever try?”

So I write them down to get them out, here in the open. It’s what I’ve found to deal with bouts, of depression as I’m coping. But I show these words to those I love, and rejection is expected, so when it’s all been said and done, silence is all I’m left with.

I tried to see the good in you, did I ever tell you that? I tried to see something new and wash away the past, just like you asked, do you remember that? Let me tell you the last time I believed that crap.

You were with my best friend on hands and knees, begging “please don’t remember me like this.” Well tough ****. All I ever did was everything you ever wanted, and this is how you repay?

And you wonder why we don’t speak the same way, oh never mind, I guess that’s my pain. You see I wish it was different, I wish all of these memories could be lifted, but how can they when the foundation of trust we built them on is shifted?

The worst part? You were the last straw, that final weight to break my heart and keep it closed off, but I can’t even talk, my words fail me every time they’re called on, and all I want to do is talk like we used to, but those times are gone.

The subtle sadness comes to send you off in grandest fashion, just quietly drift away..

Goodbye Mother,
goodbye Father,
goodbye Brother and Sister, please..
Don’t mourn for me, none of this was your fault. You tried listening, but now is the time where numbness speaks and silence takes the stage..this place is equal parts history, tragedy, and misery of my own making, so forgive me for taking the initiative, but I’m finally coming home, to a peace so rarely known.
Goodbye for a final time.
Don’t follow me,
Make this life your own,
Forget me if you must,
Just please, don’t follow me.
There’s so much I never got to see,
So I’m begging you..be my eyes,
Take me with you beyond tonight.
Try to remember how much I love you,
Don’t let this world, or our distance apart, take away your good heart.
Goodbye, and goodnight.

I want someone close to understand, not some stranger who I’ve never known beyond a simple hello and the exchange of some bills so they can listen to me talk about nothing for a few hours. But that’s all it is, nothing, blissfully reaching out for validation, for reason, for acceptance, looking for any reason at all to be something justifiable. We all have our stories, but we let others choose if they get to define us, and for me it’s enough for a friend to hear, and just tell me I’m ok every once and awhile, you don’t even need to smile when you do it..just listen, and tell me it’s ok so I can finally make something out of all this crazy nothing in my head and move on. But I’m rambling, so listen, I don’t like telling this stuff to strangers but I’m worried that’s what we are sometimes. So before it gets too far down the line and I’m remembering you with a smile you’ll never see. Please, hear me out, and acknowledge that my somber nothings have a reason.

To the hope that I have lost,
Of spilling here, a single drop,
Of worthy ink upon this page,
Why have you fled,
To better days?

In times of love you moved so freely,
Writing every word so keenly,
succinctly, yes!
Truly I, was blessed by love,
And ever since, the wounded dove.

Two years apart had rusted wit,
And aching heart had dulled my pen,
To a point,
Of wounded pride,
A vestige of such happy times.

Yet still I cling to those old ways,
My ill-begotten glory days,
Of love, hope, and fluid pen,
All forgotten,
By the  end.

She said to me, she said,
“What happened, you use to laugh.”

And I came back,

“That was before the aftermath of depressive spats tackled head-on. Before I developed a habit of asking what’s wrong for every sad face I see, before I tried listening because no one ever heard me, and it was terrible.”

And I got an earful of awful sounding words.

“You took their hurt, but what’s that worth when it’s tearing you up inside? When every night you struggle to say goodbye to faces long gone, and you just have to carry on like nothing’s wrong? I can hear it in your voice now, the spark is gone.”

And I said,

“No one’s perfect, but for for what it’s worth I’d do it all again. And maybe that’s because I miss them all so much, my dear friends who never heard the meaning in my words..We all hurt, but I’ll take it all in for them, again and again. And if my laughter is reduced to a smirk well then, I’d say that’s a small price to pay in the end.”

I have no leg to stand upon,
physically and metaphorically so,
When it comes to the world of pain.
And how ironic is this, that bliss should overtake me when drawing upon that well.

As I’ve had my fair share,
Of scars to bare, when it comes to conflict.
Yet when looking at it by that lens,
I find it necessary to append the phrase,
“It’s not so bad.”

Because those days have come and gone,
And many more will follow,
So when time comes to call upon,
The pain I’ve gladly wallowed in,
I have no leg to stand upon,
And so my sorrow ends.

For her I would do all,
My rise and fall facilitated by fate,
Was not enough to keep me apart,
For in heart, I am hers forever.

My spirit asunder,
Has held true under perilous time,
From the ashes of her memory,
I rise to be a stronger man.

That in her features I see,
Breathing as calm as the ocean,
And let there be, my source of strength,
Through vast and loving devotion.

My heart is yours forever,
Yet I cannot give it so freely,
Cursed be this ****** fate,
Yet neither time nor distance, may ever take what is wholly yours.

I’ve seen the place where women drive low
The spirits of good men and play the victim. I’ve seen unconquerable hearts fall under the siege of great Helen and question their own self-worth. Likewise I have seen Alexander spread his influence too far and ruin what could have been the world’s greatest empire, until he is forced to burn his own cities to the ground rather than concede defeat. It is easy to lose your way and view the world by this great struggle, but don’t. I can tell you that even as a bystander to that line of thinking, I’ve been caught in it’s grasp on both ends. It’s a poison, a lie created by vulnerable hearts so they can play the victim like it’s something to be proud of. Instead, remember that there are good people in this world who are completely separate from that struggle, and you could be too.

A “Rap-tap-tapping” from the door,
To stir my thoughts with sudden force,
It’s time to answer, evermore,
The “Rap-tap-tapping” from the door,

It asks the question, “What’s my name?”
As I walk in haste up to the frame,
Yet answer slowly all the same,
And as I answer, it slips away.

I ponder there in solemn thought,
At this sudden, urgent shock,
“What was the name, now I forgot.”
And rack my brain for what was lost.

Tomorrow comes and all the same,
A “Rap-tap-tapping” from the frame,
Asking me to give a name,
For the “Rap-tap-tapping” from the frame.

I hear a distant, echoed voice,
A rapier-witted, clever boy,
And turn to face him just to find,
A trail of photos left behind.

One of me and 4 of you,
In rather somber fading view,
I look them over with saddened eyes,
And start to wonder “Who was I?”

I shake it off and face the door,
And answer slowly as before,
To find the asker there had gone,
And left a note to ponder on.

I take the note and write it down,
A name to match the question found,
And tuck it there in simple sleeve,
To be kept safely as I sleep.

Tomorrow comes and then once more,
A “Rap-tap-tapping” from the door,
Asking questions as before,
With such sudden, urgent force.

In mirrored haste and matching speed,
I pull the note there in my sleeve,
Yet find that all the words were gone,
As the “Rap-tap-tapping” carried on.

If I’m being honest,
I’ve never got this,
So hold my beer,
It’s ever-clear,
Doesn’t exist,
I guess I missed that class,
Never party,
Never study,
Just a lazy-***,
But if you need me I’ll be here,
That’s more than most can say,
You need a savior then say no more,
Just say my name,
But it doesn’t matter,
Give it 2 weeks time,
You’ll forget it all the same,
But that’s all I’ve got,
How do I live for myself?
I forgot.

So I sit on a shelf,
Like a bottle of pills,
Medication self-help,
Just human-sized,
But if I’m being honest,
I’m tired of the lies,
I care,
I’m here,
I’ve heard it a million times,
Not to say I’m wounded,
But I know you are,
And I’m still here,
Right from the start,
So go on,
Tell me one more time,
Straight from the bleeding heart.

In a land ablaze with flame you hold to a name you once loved because what else can you do? I’ve been there it’s true and they say that if you’re going through hell then keep on going, but the issue is hell’s starting to feel ***** so know me to be trying but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking of lying down. So hear me now, I know where you are, keep pushing, know your dreams and you’ll go far, remember who you are is part of who you were and stay married down on earth. Here, grounded, surrounded by friends, take a moment to breathe again and remember, that even if Hell feels like home, you’re not alone.

From shade to shade,
I’ve danced and played,
From red to blue,
In every hue,
And all the colors,
Shine  the same,

Yet separate still,
By stubborn will,
All are different,
Within the frame,
And so they judge,
In such a way,
To live divided,
In this place.

By earthy base,
Or dullest-grays,
Separate too,
By weight and age,
Baby Blue or heavy states,
Like green and brown,
So simply named.

Some are dark,
And others light,
Marked by names,
Like black and white,
But still and so,
They have a place,
On the canvas,
All the same.

She dances there, in stutter-step,
To match the beating of my heart.
An angel fair, pirouettes forever in my mind, spinning gracefully back and forth.
Every now and then she calls to me, summoning back feelings long since forgotten. Of joy and trust, true love and hope, and for a moment, I remember this is my home. I swore I’d never come back here, but here I am. Memories are weird like that, when you least expect it, they can make you smile.

On sands he sat, contemplating quiet things. Things left unsaid and things rarely shown. Reflecting on the feelings of men, or the friendliness of misery. After all, if no one likes being miserable, why are so many people unhappy with their lot in life. He chucked, realizing that he was only 12, and probably shouldn’t be thinking of such things.

But how important they were, and how common they were, begged such questions. Thinking of this, his father’s voice rang in his ears.
“Such thoughts are an older man’s game. Enjoy these years while you have them.” But again his mind raced, he was so often called an old soul, one of the few left. All of these things, rarely spoken of, always needed, and slowly fading.


Perhaps it is simply due to the way we grow older, he thought. The way so many of us rarely get a chance to ponder such questions, we are given our roles to play, and little else. He sat there on the shore of the beach, thinking and writing for a while longer, until a starfish washed up on shore next to him and broke the spell.

From spirit to echo,
From father to son,
I am neither, and both at once.
It is not my place to say,
That in the infinite expanse of life,
I mean anything.
Yet my father proclaims we are the world,
And everything.

He does so with quiet clarity,
Reveling with a drink in one hand.
Oh, what a sad and clairvoyant man.
He speaks of wisdom beyond his years,
Yet with the courage of several beers,
And who am I, to judge his choice,
When he so often represses voice?

A quiet dream should be celebrated, not killed.
And I fear that spark is all but dying,
So in the moments of his clarity,
I sit and I listen, for fear of denying destiny.
He speaks as I, once did, and so,
I consider his words as beautiful prose,
Of death, and dying, of breath, and life,
I ponder them all, as forgotten advice.

A lucky little moment, of wisdom to be saved,
Speaking solely to me, and my glory days,
Where tales were once written,
Of dinners and of guests,
And betrayals in order,
To sort out the rest.
That was the first one, I ever wrote,
A poem, like the Bible, to a girl of note.
Not of love, and cheesy, ****** lines,
But an allegory for Jesus, and the way that he died.

And I did this with passion,
No fear, and no doubt,
It was a wonderful creation,
That spontaneous spout.
Such wordplay and wisdom, inspired by love,
Is one thing, I’m missing,
With no memory of.

I don’t care for wants or needs,
Or winds, or trees,
For me, they just are,
And is that wrong?

I see myself as a spirit,
A force, for good, as of course,
We are here, and then gone,
By tomorrow’s end.

So before all of that,
I leave you good will,
Or as much as I can,
Dear friend.

But I feel I am bound,
By other’s weary chains,
And they hold me,
To something else.

I’m stuck on the ground,
With my head in the clouds,
Trapped inside,
An expectant shell.


But being me is freedom,
To think,
To travel, or wait and see,
As I care very little, for wants and needs.

To live so freely in a land of heaven,
Yet dawdle like children,
Begs the question,
“What am I doing here?”

In an age of convenience yet unmatched,
We find ourselves the ruling class,
With no purpose to unwind,
We simply wish to pass the time.

Yet promised land for us, is this,
That bright and shining place of bliss,
Of clouds and angels to call home,
For some of us too well known.

So what difference does it make,
If we should pass then just to wake,
To see this life painted new,
Still stuck inside a gilded room?

A poison spreads today,
From all the words which carry weight,
Spoken true or never heard,
We pay so much for every word,

Consider then the asking price,
Of lending ears or some advice,
Or open arms fit to embrace,
Forget the words and make a change.

That’s all it takes for most you see,
To shed the weight and become free,
But who am I to speak to you,
On things that I was forced to do?

From earth to sea I’ve seen it all,
But none compete with angel’s fall,
Such grace and beauty is unfair,
In mundane life I do declare.

From eyes to smile it is clear,
She’s worth the while and sincere,
But to attempt upon a heart,
Well how could I ever start?

A man of dreams and simple wants,
I have no means or wealth to flaunt,
But hope enough to wish it true,
To toughen up and see it through,

So I ask now in awkward haste,
In quiet, shy, and nervous state,
Will you accept this only chance,
Or reject a great romance?

To the weary one who travels alone,
Know that you are free,
Untethered by destiny,
Your choice is your own.
Your path may never be set,
But don’t ever forget who you are.
A traveler, a seeker, a curious heart,
Steps heavy in the dark,
Searching for a part you never found,
Scared you’ll amount to nothing,
Fumbling your way through,
One sunrise to the next.
But never forget,
You are the change and the unchecked.
Never forget this life is yours,
So before you get scared,
Remember no one was prepared for this life.
I promise we all find our place in time.

All the words on all the parchment,
All the love that this heart gives,
Was never enough for the one I love,
The girl I’m dreaming of never once cared for me,
And honestly I can’t blame her,
So I write this poem with a disclaimer,
I care too much for love.

From the day I met her I’ve been awe struck,
At the beauty, the laugh, the smile and the craft,
From arts to inks to prayers,
I’ve never seen a love so fair.
And I say this now in memory,
For the one I never told,
I’m sorry.

With every fiber of my being as my tears swell on the page,
I’m so sorry I didn’t say that I loved you,
At the time I didn’t know how much you meant,
So I let the moment slip away, but I want you to know,
Not a day goes by that I don’t try for yesterday.

In honesty it bothers me I can’t write like I used to, when all my eyes saw were blue skies no hope of my head falling from the clouds, but that was then and this is now and somehow I ended up crashing back down to earth. No joy left, no merry mirth to be given I’m just living for tomorrow but tomorrow never comes so I slug it out like I remember doing not knowing who I am or where I’m going but hoping that I’ll get there one day, I’ll find my tomorrow away from today and be free from this eternity of wondering who I really am. I feel like I’m hopeless, coping with the thought that maybe I’m not who I remember because I’ve forgotten how to be him, but I just know freedom’s around the corner so I move forward forever wether or not it was meant to be, maybe this is me.

Such twisted wings on perfect frame,
A poisoned thing with pretty name,
Hallowed be her every step,
From when we met to when she left.

And oh how I am such a fool,
To fondly think of one so cruel,
Yet that is me, then and now,
A giving tree with core cut down.

And I cannot blame a tired soul,
For seeking warmth in world’s cold,
So when she gave to me her hand,
I gave to her a loving chance.

And in those days I wore a smile,
There was no maze, no test or trial,
To tell me then what wisdom knew,
That happy things are rarely true.

And soon I found she left to me,
Such twisting, gnawing, growing seeds,
Of pain and doubt in lasting glimpse,
Her name carved out in reverence.

For she confessed to me these thoughts,
A sense of growing, twisting, gnawing loss,
And I like donors linked and paired,
Gave my heart to see her spared.

But fool was I to do this deed,
As I fear this tall giving tree,
Has wilted, worn, and rotted through,
Left to mourn with little use.

So reaching then up towards the sun,
Sensing thoughts of love and fun,
I call anew another name,
To sew the seeds all the same.

Writing old and writing dead,
Writing here what’s left unsaid,
To say that I could never write,
And put an end to it’s delight.

From hopes and dreams I’ve made my case,
Weak and weary fit to break,
And from those ashes nothing flies,
Not a Phoenix within sight.

But I keep writing just the same,
To cling and cradle dying flame,
Born of love, a hope, a dream,
A tired dove now out of steam.

And who could blame the holding on,
To tired fame when muse is gone,
No halo, prayer, or feathered wing,
To hear these dying hopes and dreams.