I find myself alone on a Friday night,
one part choice and two parts frailty,
an inexplicable inability to cope with personalities,
a story as old as the concept of the dreamer,
unfortunate kids who can't do anything but grasp at stars,
and shrink away from shadows,
played on the white-wash walls of our youth,
I know what I must do to change things,
I have the tools,
and yet here I am.

I sit alone drinking hot chocolate,
the kind my mother made for me as a child,
sipping nostalgia,
and thinking of things,
which in some sense are (not necessarily) necessary,
and staring out into lampposts along the parkway,
their light reflecting in my eyes,
and all at once I can be whatever I want,
and achieve whatever my heart desires,
I am thrown back into the restful sleep of the past.

At times like these I can see everything that I need to,
I can see the path ahead of me,
the trail behind,
and the stars stitched to the lights below,
or perhaps it is the opposite,
and thus vertigo sets in the mind of the dreamer,
and tomorrow I will forget it all,
I will no longer believe in love,
or the optimism I have lost,
the forgiveness I freely gave,
and the power to see past what is placed before me.

I am alone,
I am here,
I exist,
(at least I think I do)
I am lonely and I am also at peace,
at peace in the darkness of my choosing,
preferring flecks of hope,
over the blaring noise around me.

They live among us.

Who am I?

We see them every day,
we cannot know.

Why me?

Working day to day,
the dead walking,
leaving invisible trails of blood in their wake.

I deserved it.

Dreams filled with running,
monsters hiding in plain sight,
burnt out shells,
devoid of human light.

Why do I even care?

Nights spent alone,
sleep cannot take it away,
no safety found in their homes,
smoldering ash,
where human beings used to be.

Maybe if I...

All avenues cut off,
seething pain turned to numbness,
the burden of the day,
phantom wounds cut to the quick,
by the time we're aware,
it's far too late.

Why am I so unworthy?

This story is as old as time itself,
speak the word,
tell this story to the forty-four percent who are still children,
they're young,
they'll get over it,
tell it to the eighty percent under thirty,
it builds character,
tell it to the walking dead born every two minutes,
it's not my problem.

When did God stop caring?

The law,
all encompassing,
all knowing,
all powerful,
what a joke,
indifferent,
indecisive,
imperfect science.

When did home become a prison?

Tell this story to the law,
tell it to the judge,
tell it to the predator,
tell it to the sixty percent that go unreported,
tell it to the ninety-seven percent that will never see the bars that bind,
tell it to the two-thirds who knew their reaper,
tell it to the thirty-eight percent who stared into the face of familiarity,
the abysmal side of human nature.

*Tell this story to the one-fifth of women in this country,
who fall prey to twisted shadows,
the hearts of man,
tell them that they are worthy

Here we are,
at the edge of the world,
the tides of an ancient sea crashing down,
the reddening tides wash away,
the fragile smiles of mankind,
blazing from the torrent,
man has turned his face,
defending his better side.
He does not fight,
he simply waits,
accepting the fate that is to come,
suffocation beneath the waves,
for what can he do?
He sees no other option,
for man is no visionary,
man is a creature of comfort,
wit has been replaced by social complacency,
social dependency,
social degradation,
social fixation,
the fighting spirit is lost to antiquity.

What is the dream,
the diary I keep with notes etched to the seam?
What is the goal,
the endpoint at which I determine my role?
The world only skims off the top it seems,
loving only the cream of the crop.

Lost am I,
having strayed from the path,
a world split down the middle,
cut and dry,
and if so,
where can I live,
who can abide my wayward soul?
A soul assembled from the ashes of Descartes and Kant,
a contradiction in continuity,
can I or can't I,
change the hand that I've got?

Listen to the song,
the siren's polyphony,
the refrain rate familiar,
the color tone wrong,
discern for yourself,
what is the bane of the crown?
Stifle your fear and strike at the root,
with shovel in hand bury your sin,
always striving for truth,
rend the tree at both ends.

Yes,
I am a pariah,
***** in purpose and soul,
the wayfarer's failure,
refusing to pay the pathfinder's toll,
and although my map is imperfect,
all roads lead to Rome.

Retreatist,
rebel,
jester,
fool,
gladly I'll claim the whole lot,
each title a badge,
a step towards my goal,
this society is sick and refuses to see,
each individual is a person,
gay,
gypsy,
Muslim,
Jew.

I lay smiling,
staring up through the leaves,
underneath our favorite tree,
that old weeping willow.
It's a world of its own,
leaves envelope me,
the death of entropy,
if only for a short time.
I sit and I remember,
of days spent,
days unkempt and full of spirit,
I sit and I remember.
That day I was off singing with friends,
walking down dark, warm streets,
no padding to accompany my feet,
enjoying all that is sweet.
The sunlight tears through the leaves,
I can't help it,
you're staring back at me,
through this willow.

Your blue eyes pierce me.

I sit and I smile,
I sit and I cry,
I sit alone,
I am not lonely,
this place is our home.

The Devil,
King of Hell,
Lord of Deception,
and to me,
a common misconception.

He tempts us when we least expect it,
he tempts us all the time,
subversive puppet strings,
his subterfuge refined.
He is evil,
he is cruel,
participant of time's longest feud.

But wait,
his intention wasn't this at all,
where did he lose his way?
where did he go wrong?
He was prideful,
an unwitting thrall,
Son of Perdition,
hated by the one and the all.
Guile isn't an easy game,
he must have intellect beyond our scope,
why can't he see what's in front of him?
He himself is his own undoing.
He gives us agency,
is that such a bad thing?
He's either,
stupid,
spiteful,
or most frightening of all,
knows the truth,
the necessity he represents.
Perhaps,
this whole game is a ruse,
a tool,
a pawn ready for use.
A necessary evil,
corrupting some,
perfecting others,
a tragic story to tell.
He struggles in vain,
we struggle the same,
struck from the Good Lord's veins,
made to improve.

There is no refuge in the dark,
darkness is stark against the light,
without the one,
there can be no other.

No matter what I write,
not a thing will change,
no reason to this world,
no magic in the way I see it.

I believe in peaceful rebellion,
but it that enough?

No one will likely listen to my words,
they will listen only to action,
but what can I do?

Violence seems to be the key,
wars waged in the name of virtue,
change founded on a mountain of corpses,
America's truth.

And though I struggle,
nothing I do or say will be heard,
my opinion is worth little.

Is this the world in which I want to raise children?

A fragile peace,
fought with secrets,
with fear.

A savage place,
segregated by race,
and aggregated equality.

A world without change,
laws forged through bloodstains,
sanguine writ,
the only truth I see.

And so,
I retreat,
this world estranged from me,
a hermit hiding,
in what ought to be.