In those moments of great despair,
I often wonder here and there,
Just how often she tends to care,
Wether or not I'm really there.
Or does she fabricate just so,
We collaborate to and fro,
On what would make her worries go,
Out the window; to and fro.
Does she care for me at all,
To give my tired form a call,
And speak to me with wondrous gall,
Does she care? I tend to call.
And honestly I cannot tell,
If she is casting there a spell,
In that moment to make me well,
By faking there a panicked spell.
But every night or some such time,
She calls on me to ease her mind,
And soothe her soul with words sublime,
She calls on me; every time.
So then I wonder if it's true,
Or just a carefully crafted ruse,
To connect with her anew,
In the context of a ruse.

Once taught, the value of self-worth by the worthless.
Once learned, to be a crutch for the broken to use.
Once traded, my own feelings in to feel perfect.
Once gained, an addiction to tales sad and true.

It isn't right, to know pain so well.
It isn't fair, when it can be a friend to you.
It isn't just, to help the broken who fell.
It isn't good, when their stories renew.

All faith you held, in your own worth.
All hope you had, once full and well.
All joy you gave, in merry mirth.
All peace you got, whilst curing ails.

The madness starts, when it's all for you.
This twisting tale, of parasite care.
Given in haste, in hopes to renew.
All promise of worth, in times of despair.

You have to realize I wear my heart on my sleeve and I’ve got a rap sheet of loving scars long enough to cover both arms. so pardon me if I have a thing for tragedy, but my life has enough in it to be a playwright’s masterpiece.

Child's play degrades with age and makes its way on through the days, until its mark is cast away and in its place are aches and pains.

In memory's love it makes its stay before the times of old and grey, and gives its best of laughter joyous to see you off on life's great voyage.

A time for you to see the sights marked by many empty nights, filled with wonder for the day of what to do in golden rays.

For the sun leaves too and in its passing leaves the moon which wanes and waxes, to say to you in crescent fashion a month has past in life's contraption.

As time does fade in passing days and leaves behind with little trace, the things you knew were true in spades to see them easily replaced.

I hold loyalty only to the colors of rose and chrome.
Searching for the exact same model of new and old,
Name of no consequence,
I have no use for this,
I wish I’d never met you in all the hopeful bliss.

I am the guest of honor at my own feast of betrayal,
Held in your name as a sacrifice to the flames of love,
So tell me now how I am a saint sweet raven,
Sweet angel,
And wring out my soul for your gain,
And I’ll happily commit character assassination in your name.

It's been so long since I've remembered,
The gentle blue sky and calming breeze,
Or surrendered myself to peaceful sleep,
Under a shady backyard tree.

It's been so long since I've caught a ball,
Or touched a base as a mat or a home,
I used to love to find a hiding place,
Amidst the forest I once roamed.

It's been so long since I've felt that wonder,
And I miss it well and true,
I miss the days that I spent under,
A sun that I once knew.

Nowadays he'***** or miss,
A friend of simple tastes,
But when he shines it's truly bliss,
I love it when he stays.

Yet when he leaves and the clouds roll in,
I simply smile at them and try to breathe,
Hello today my old friends,
So kind of you to visit me.

Right now I miss you like the young miss the old because the good go to soon.

I miss you like most of us miss the sunshine on a gloomy afternoon.

I miss you like the earth misses the moon because without you my tides are out of wack, but let's bring it back.

I miss you like my parents miss 8-tracks. To record and make memories last.

I miss you like a life gone to fast past the good times that always seem to last around you.

Because I love you like a child seeing something new for the first time.

Because you remind me of the first time I fell in love, and show me that I'm dreaming of something beautiful every time I think of you.

Please Don’t Go..

Dear Mother, please don’t go..

The news has barely had time to set in and already I feel a crescendo of tears raising up to greet me, and every memory I had so neatly tucked away is now blaring out on full display begging me to remember. But I can’t grasp at just one, all I can do is fight to process all the progress that led us here, to this 2/5 chance.

A 2/5 chance cancer might rear its ugly head. A 2/5 chance to end the dance of life and see you dead in the ground, and honestly I’ve seen the impact a minority number can have with a loud enough sound but I’ve never heard one so pronounced as this..so please don’t go.. because I’m not ready to say I’ll miss you..

They clashed with pride, and poisoned word, plied their trade, and sowed deceit, for chance of love, they all denied, the meaning of humanity.

Like wild beasts, they tore apart, the fragile shells, that kept them safe, and found beneath, a tainted heart, changed and blackened, in its state.

A sign to them, the few with reason, to leave behind, their petty wants, while fool and friend, committed treason, to soothe the pride, which they had lost.

And those who stayed, would find themselves, soon fractured, and confused, for they had made, a living hell, which pride had led them to.

When boredom strikes a quiet man,
He's left to sit and ponder,
On curious mysteries,
Small and grand,
Of life and endless wander.

The smallest step first taken young,
Has led him now to this,
Few memories left,
They all have run,
And now are sorely missed.

He ponders silent the quiet nights,
He spent so freely doing nothing,
Recalling then,
With small delight,
How often he'd been bluffing.

Saying things akin to lies like,
"Soon I'll speak my mind,
I'll leave this place,
And cut all ties,
I'll leave it all behind."

Yet in his mind,
He knew the truth,
Buried far beneath,
He made the lies for simple use,
To keep him on his feet.

For when boredom strikes a quiet man,
He's left alone with thoughts,
Of endless time,
Which life demands,
And how quickly time is lost.

He thinks of things,
Like yesterday,
And how happy he was when,
To ease the fear and pain away,
Of facing there and then.

And soon he finds all time is up,
As marked by shades of grey,
He ponders then,
Too late it seems,
Of what to do today.

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.

The tune will carry the weight,
As the hand rushes away in rhythm,
Don't stop writing now,
No time to look back,
Race the fleeting song away,
Before the doubting black.

Feel your eyes drift away to reread a line,
But stay focused,
Don't stop now,
There is no time for self doubt.

Who cares what you write down?
It's yours right now,
Worry about the details later,
When you feel drained,
See what comes of writing today.

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.

Across these lonely shores I've been,
Countless times before,
Tracing lines into the sand,
To connect to something more.

I write a name to shape a face,
And reflect in shades of gray,
How it felt to see this place,
With others here to stay.

I remember all,
And all to well,
I recall a simple smile,
Telling me to just relax,
And reminisce awhile.

And who am I to deny these ghosts?
They soothe my soul with ease,
So I sit down to have a chat,
With my old memories.

But all good things must come to end,
Or so the saying goes,
I say goodbye to my old friends,
And remember that I'm alone.

If I'm being honest, it's like a monster hiding in my closet that I don't want to acknowledge because the moment that I do it becomes real.

It's like the things that I feel don't really matter, because honestly I'm happier gathering up the pieces of my memory that I left behind while trying to survive then I am just being alive.

Because for me, my life is a movie I don't really watch, it's just the background noise I keep on repeat to distract myself from getting lost in memory as more of them pass by.

To be honest I don't remember much until the age of nine, when I said goodbye to my father to see my dad for the first time. We got along well.

Then comes me at ten, a timid, tense, and nervous wreck going in for my first routine check with the doctor before he told me a repeat surgery would make me a temporary amputee every couple of years, a common practice.

Next is me at twelve all perplexed because my heart swelled the first time I met an angel. I remember well her broken wings had the most beautiful feathers I'd ever seen, they were black and grey with hints of scattered ink beneath, so she didn't mind when I asked to borrow one for a pen so I could begin to express in words how often she took my breath away.

After that was the aftermath of me from fourteen to sixteen wishing I could take back every word I wrote. Every memory was either a quick stick-and-move jab or a knockout-punch quote that to this day I can't come back from.

Ever since then it's just been re-runs of the same show day in and day out, I wake up with a smile flipped from last night's failure to pen anything new, and pick up the pieces that fell through the cracks from the day before.

It's a walk down nostalgia lane I've been aching for, but all we ever talk about is the time we had before time was up and nothing more, except the aches and pains we're both feeling these days.

It's like a retirement home for old times where good ones go to die, and we'd go out and make more but there's no time left to come by.

But why does it have to be that way? We spend all of our time talking about yesterday like there's nothing else to do but put our memories up on a shelf in the category marked "Should have."

But with you I'd rather think of could have. Like we could have a wonderful time together at a coffee shop called "Picture Perfect." And you could show me all the paintings they have on display there that make life worth it.

You could tell me about all the fun we would have had together chasing our dreams of artistry. I would write poetry inspired by all the paintings you'd make to take my breath away and leave me speechless with nothing left to say but how much I love you.

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 found one once,
Who stole my heart.
Though twisting pride,
Did tear apart,
All hope we had,
Of loving fate,
As she found love,
In many names.

As the simple man,
I planned to be,
I said to her,
With begging plea,

"My eyes see you,
As angles do,
Radiant and heavenly.
So if our love,
Should end this way,
Consumed by passion's
growing blaze,
By fate's decree,
I swear it true,
For now and always,
I love you."

She simply smiled,
And walked away,
With heavy heart,
She left my gaze,
And turned to meet
Another man,
Who offered gold,
With heart in hand.

He promised her,
A house to keep,
A car to have,
And a place to sleep.
All these things,
He promised grand,
Though never stopped,
To understand,
Why she felt,
So unhappy.

He gave her all,
But one great thing,
He left out love,
Which left a sting.
Upon her heart,
She felt a *****,
As cupid's arrows,
Did the trick.

She longed again,
For simple tastes,
Two tender hearts,
And love's embrace.
Though when she left,
Her house of gold,
To find a simple man,
She found he left,
A tombstone cold,
That softly read:

"By fate's decree,
I swear it true,
For now and always,
I love you."

Have I forgotten,
How to speak,
In vibrant hues,
Of yellow-pink?
Of sunny days,
And precious sweets,
Traded then,
For gray and bleak.

I wonder this,
So often now,
If voice is lost,
Can it be found?
A simple thing,
To miss and yet,
How quickly we,
Can just forget.

The easy days,
Of smiles gone,
Of children's games,
And laughter long.
When simple things,
Could entertain,
In yesterday,
where smiles reigned.

Sorrow is a poison
That spreads from man to man
Unknowingly corrupting those around us and ahead.
Passed down from one generation to the next
From one heart to another
Darkening the beautiful blank slates that make up the foundation of promise.
With modes of transport as subtle as repression
And as pronounced as love.
I have lived for 22 years and observed the way it spreads.
A drop of sorrow to a wicked man is as common as rain
But it is a flood for those of good intent.
It gives simple words a sting, or even those unsaid
It turns a good man doubtful
And a doubtful dangerous.
Sorrow is the sum of wounds the heart has seen touched or felt.
It is the reason for insecurity, for mockery, for unnecessary pain.
The next time someone shows you sorrow, mend it with care
And know that it likely did not start with you.

In truth,
I speak,
To memories long a-go,
The ones I can-not see..

Those who,
Hold keys,
To my dear heart and so,
I,
Call out,
To thee..

I’m sor-ry,
For all,
That I have said to you,
Through these wil-ting years..

I think,
On you,
Sing-ing sorr-ow’s tune,
Still sadly,
Wai-ting here..

The years,
Have passed,
And you,
Are now,
Long gone..

To be honest, I thought I knew your story.
I thought I knew your struggles to a degree that’s hard to explain. The pain of knowing the world is not all it’s cracked up to be, I thought we were the same..but when I see you, when I finally take the time to step outside my head and away from thinking, I get the chance to see who you really are and I am stunned. There, in that moment the only thing that matters is you, and the truth as you know it, defined by your smile shines true in the end, every time I think I know you, you go and smile. So please, stay and talk awhile, I want to get to know you.

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.

For thee I utter those three words,
Declared then to be true,
Never was there a star-crossed pair,
To rival the sun and moon.

Not like you and I you see,
As the heavens declared our fate,
To shine like beacons brilliantly,
And rival golden gates.

To light the world eagerly,
With a pair of broken smiles,
Carried still so gracefully,
Through life and all it's trials.

For we were blessed to find a match,
And spark the flames of love,
It seems that we were made made from scratch,
As a star-crossed pair above.

From the stars above she plays her games,
On withering wings with a plastic smile.
She speaks of love like a gentle rose,
Finding purchase in any other name.

Why is it then that I give her chase,
This slithering snake in a garden of roses?
She offers poison in a land untouched,
And still I follow in loving state.

Like the vibrant sun she offers light,
With reckless radiance she speaks the truth.
She is the one to play at peace,
In what was already paradise.

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.”

Why don't I ask the one person I feel would have an answer? That's what I want, right? An answer. Something to live for, to be good at, to feel comfortable with? That's what I should want, right? So why don't I ask if it would help me find peace?

To be honest with you, I really think I'm afraid..I'm afraid because all I've had to keep me going since I was a child was this strange search for purpose. I've longed for it, I've craved it, I thought I wanted nothing more in this world than to find some reason for ME to be here..

And I found it, once...I saw that I was good at fixing things. Though my expertise wasn't cars or computers like some might think, it was broken heart strings...because It turns out that years of loneliness does wonders for understanding how the wounds we don't see can be the ones to bring us down..

And for awhile, I was happy healing those wounds..until a question hit me. Like a broken record doomed to repeat, It played over and over again, it kept asking me.
"Do you really care how others feel? Or is this all for you?"

And truth be told, I was terrified because I didn't know the answer. And rather than facing the music and asking myself honestly, I chose to just stop trying..I gave up giving myself for others, so that I wouldn't have to face the fact, that giving a helping hand, was my last stand for helping me..

So now a question plagues my thoughts, it's the question of my life. And I cannot dare ask loved ones, for fear that they would lie, yet through all the years that I have lived, I still can't seem to answer this.

"What kind of man am I?"

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.”

Hello dear thoughts,
I say that a lot,
Are you here for a haunt,
Or a happy little jaunt down memory lane?

I’d like to keep warm here,
If it’s all the same to you,
I’d like to live sincerely,
And learn something new.

But it seems more often than not,
My dear friends, my thoughts,
That you’ve forgotten how to be happy,
And so I’m asking, stop me if I misunderstand you.

Because to me you seem to dwell,
On all the unfair, and all the unwell,
But we had lots of good times too,
Just swell don’t you remember?

Well I guess it’s too much to ask,
Like when I pray for the winter,
In December to last,
So I ask you now, unmask your thoughts.

And remember all the good times,
We up and forgot,
Like how everybody loves you, really, a lot.
Now if you can tell me,

Can we forget our memories,
Of tragedies, a masterpiece of sad-to-see thoughts,
A lot of you forgot the best part of me,
The happy part, a work of art with a sunrise in the margins.

To chase the lonely blues away,
I write this now to yesterday,
And say to them; all those I miss,
I'm sorry it has come to this.
Now down this longing list I go,
Filled to the brim with woeful prose,
A lovely way here to express,
What it's like; this loneliness.
Now I'm awake at 1 AM,
Wishing I could speak to them,
To cast away the silent spell,
Known as sleep; to make me well.
To see them all now up and rise,
And hear the call of daybreak cries,
A Rooster-bird or some-such pet,
I'd jump for joy as sadness left.
For now's the time where memories reign,
And every one does have a name,
To call to me and mark their time,
Stealing peace then from the mind.
Yet if I could just speak to them,
The loving souls of kith and kin,
I'd know right then without a doubt,
I'd found a cure for lonely bouts.

The only time,
I seem to care,
Is when the sun,
Swings 'round to call me.
When birds are heard,
Through morning air,
And no memories,
Dare befall me.

No twisting doubts,
Or nagging pains,
No binding chains to hold,
Though this is grand,
The fact remains,
The day will soon unfold.

And with it too,
My chores will come,
This thing I do call work,
Shall drive me mad,
And drive me numb,
And leave me in the dirt.

Yet still I rise,
To greet it strong,
Just as life demands,
"How time flies,"
"You don't have long,"
"So spend it with your hands."

Counting money,
Or busing tables,
And spinning fables,
To get you through,
This life of yours,
Which you call stable,
Though we know,
This isn't true.

So why on earth,
Do we live this way,
Spending time in foolish fashion,
We work ourselves,
'Til dying day,
And rarely find our passions.

Yet still we rise,
As days before,
And continue this "Nothing Cycle."
We give our lives,
To something more,
A state of true,
Denial.

To the angel that I’ve yet to meet,
That gentle spark of creativity,
The calling card of humanity,
I’m so glad to see you sane.

Though the years apart do paint their toll,
For all of us to see,
None of that matters anymore,
Now that I’ve met you,
And you’ve met me.

I’d say I love you here,
But the years apart have been unkind,
For we both have our weight to carry,
But seeing you here sets all my care free,
Enough that maybe is almost certain.

So before we hear the curtain call,
Put on a dazzling display,
Of heart, of warmth, of spirit,
Set your weary heart to sea,
And let’s float gently together.

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.

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.

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.

To walk along the shores of doubt and see the waves of fear roll in. To live so long, to live without, to be depressed my friend.

To grow up good and grow up strong, to see that life is hard. To bouncing back, to going long, to going very far.

To making merry, to being happy, to seeing hope in darker times. To making smiles, to making light, to living life where laughter shines.

To being old, to being gray, to watch your memories go. To beg them hold, and bid them stay, to forgetting all you know.

To looking back, to reminisce, to accept that time knows best. To coming home, To greet a friend, to long and welcome rest.

To all of that I say to you, to treat it how you like. To living with a solemn gloom, to chasing after light.

When all is silent I find myself sad. Not because I am alone, but because all I have to keep me company are memories of you. Memories of what was, the reality of what is, and the dreams of what could have been. In another life, being alone with you would be a happy moment, instead I am left alone with the silence of memories.

A fool to care,
And a fool to dream,
A fool to hope,
Upon a spark, a gleam.

An ember born,
Of passion’s flame,
To mock my heart,
With a single name.

Radiant, the angel,
Both bright and smiling,
A gift, a treasure,
Worth the while.

Shall never see,
This lonely poem,
As I’ve given up,
And hope’s gone home.

Such is the curse,
Of “I love you” too late,
To sit on the side-lines,
To wither, to wait.

Such is the lot,
Of love never said,
To be unrequited,
To hope in love’s stead.

But what do I know,
Of love and it’s cares,
A daydreaming heart,
Who dabbles, not dares.

To take but one chance,
And give it a shot,
The gift of romance,
Which I never got.

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.

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.

How can I write about you fondly,
When I can’t  pen a good memory to your name?
The lies mix together with reality to mark the death of an angel and all I can say is I’m sorry.
I’m sorry there’s no love lost between the lines,
I’ve read between them all,
I beat myself up for not being able to write about an angel but the truth is I never had one to call my own,
So I’m sorry.
It feels like a lie to accent a painting,
A still-frame moment pictured in my head,
I’m sorry is all I’ve ever said and it’s fallen on deaf ears.
But how can I make anyone else listen when the words are years apart,
And I’m only trying to talk to you?
What would they say,
If they understood I was chasing a painted moment?
I’m sorry this is how I remember you.

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.

If I’m being honest; I say that a lot. Maybe it’s because I can’t tell the real from the not. I can’t tell the difference between my thoughts and yours, but if I’m being honest; I’ve said that before.

I’ve said it all though; I’ve said hello and goodbye. I’ve seen good angels fall from the sky, I’ve seen a grown man threaten to die on a whim, from years of neglect because he said; nobody loved him.

I’ve seen a good friend, stay just to go. He turned to say “Sorry” met with “I know.” And with a sad joyous sigh, he walked out the door, saying goodbye; but I’ve heard that before.

I’ve heard all the sayings, the
“I love you’s”, “I do’s”,
followed by years of domestic disputes. I’ve heard that I’m nothing, I’ve felt like I’m less, and I’m sure that sometimes, I seem like a mess.

But I’ve seen from this life, all that there is. A small kind of greyscale, of hate and of bliss. I’ve seen of this place, all that I can, And if I’m being honest; I’ll see it again.

But before I do that I have to sort out, exactly the facts, from maybe the doubt, and stop saying the words like I’m afraid to be hurt. but if I’m being honest; I’m afraid it won’t work.

I’m afraid I’ll be stuck just trapped in my head, reluctantly writing the things that I’ve said. Talking of angels, of love, and of hate, I’m afraid I’ll be saying the same old cliches. And if I’m being honest; I think it’s too late.

5 hours into day,
5 hours restless and awake,
5 hours be the length,
By which thy mood is tested.

If by 5 hours you grow weary,
Then the day shall drag,
Dreadful, dreary,
Let there be no mistake.

The stakes of the day,
Are easy to misplace,
To ask time to wait,
Is a laughable thing.

Yet still we say,
Why not do tomorrow,
In exchange for this day?
And our restless souls turn.

Filled with dread for tomorrow,
As we never learn,
That 5 hours in,
We start again.

To talk of gentle love and me,
Seems something of an oddity.
Yet to speak of angels as muses sing,
Used to come so naturally.

A somber sonnet of the soul,
Would ease the pain of heartache's toll.
And bring with it some great delight,
Yet now that gift has taken flight.

I cannot find the words once more,
All left behind on battered shores,
Of love and loss and life now gone,
I've lost the strength to carry on.

No words shall leave this shaking hand,
Of light and hope and love once grand.
And soon shall I then fade from view,
As my words have after you.

A broken angel on borrowed wings,
To teach of love and what it brings,
To show there beauty at its best,
And lay a wild heart to rest.

To teach of pain then born of passion,
And mark the soul in subtle fashion,
To linger there in memory,
Forever bathed in agony.

Take this then, my parting gift,
A simple thing which I will miss.
My pen and heart belong to you,
Goodbye my love and gentle muse.

I want to say I love you so badly,
But how can I when you find love everywhere?
In this heart or that one,
In that name and the next,
What is love to you,
But an endless honeymoon?
I want to give you what you say you want so badly,
But I’m afraid of being hurt.
In just a day she said my name,
So gentle and much too sweet.
In a week she said it with a gleam,
In two her friends heard wedding bells,
And my god I should have listened.
But I never said a word,
I was too afraid.
You asked me in a month or so,
What it would take for me to like you,
And I wanted so badly to say that I love you.
But how could I,
When you see love everywhere?
It’s been four years and I’m sorry,
But love just isn’t fair,
I’m stuck here lost in thought,
About how I never said I love you.

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.

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?

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.

I showed her my words and she told me,
“Write stories instead.”
I treat her like a princess but she always prefers the jester,
I tell her she’s beautiful and she doesn’t hear a word.
I make plans to hang out and she chooses someone else’s,
Nothing I do is ever good enough,
So why do I care about her still?