A young poet sat perplexed at his desk,
ink and quill at arms length.
Still he found
that without his sorrows -
he had no words to note.
The sun, it rose,
and alas it perished,
while the pages before him were -
ever blank.
"How could it be,
that without my sorrows,
I muster no creativity?"
The Wise One shall hear me.
The Wise One shall heal me.
The young poet raised his question
to which the Wise One replied:
"My boy, in time -
you shall find
after I philosophize,
your pages and heart to be tied."
The Wise One sat upon a park bench,
watching the leaves turn red.
Watching the snow fall.
Watching the babes be born.
He sat,
and he sat . . .
and
he
sat.
His hair grew longer,
and the seasons warmer,
but the answer drew,
never closer.
The Wise One never,
found the answer.

If you were to search my bedroom,
don't expect to find any treasures.
Besides my bed you are likely to find
a years worth of empty pharmaceuticals
to cure a life of ill pleasures.

If you were to search my bedroom,
don't expect that you will piece the puzzle together.
Because the reason I am,
the way that I am,
is not because the pieces are jumbled,
but because some never existed at all.

If you were to search my bedroom,
don't expect to find me there -
for that is a life that I left behind.
Why you may ask?
I'll pick you a flower I planted inside my head,
and we'll see how long you can bear
its potency.