The weight of darkness
is something only the sun
can ever make light.

The days move on as you have done.
You spoke so often of leaving, I had to have you gone.

Run little man, run away again.
It's what you know. That's a lifestyle? That's not a life.

Run little man, run to your teepee.
On the road to ruin... never again to see me.

I thought I was your friend. I was never your foe.
I loved you so dearly, you will never know.

Really your loss, you will someday discover - I was your friend truly, you'll never find another - Like me.

When will you understand who I am? Will you ever? I hope never, maybe I can hide forever and pretend my mind's together.

When will you see behind my facade, my concealing foundations of which I have laid, the cracks are spreading, I hope you don't see, that I am the demon and the demon is me.

YOU WANT TO KEEP YOUR OPTIONS OPEN AND I DON'T BLAME YOU
I WOULDN'T CHOOSE ME EITHER

It will do its best to hurt you, twist your emotions, break you financially, mentally, emotionally, physically and spiritually. It wants you to suffer. To break you before it can 'make' you. Snared between its gnarly teeth it has no remorse. Until the very end, it will bite in and grind, chewing on your patience until every day is simply the same and you beg for mercy. Recalling memories like postage stamps to a bygone era, days fold themselves away into neat envelopes, ready to be relived both now and never.  

Those who are sensitive know the score. That life is a game that sometimes they don't feel like playing. At times you win, at times you lose. The thrill of the ride is in the journey; that first rush of life that flows through your veins and down the drain. After that, routine is a mundane affair that will **** you if it gets the chance. By keeping you breathing.  

A victim to circumstance, you find yourself trying to take control where there is none. Frustration sunsets kick in and scream for resistance. But still, the routine. Average life, average dreams. Mr and Mrs Grey only become free to express themselves sexually as every other form of creativity is strictly banned. Colour an illusion, playing with love. There is shyness. Uncertainty where there should be knowing. TV drama. Break-ups. Celebrity divorce. Iraq. Iran. Paid for wars. ****** and delirious children. Emaciated women. Sexuality, a given. Robots on stage. Narcissism all the rage. Fear in fashion. Outrage but no action. We parade our pain online. Wax and wane. Reliving youth, former glory. And all the time we wonder where it ends. Begging for another story.

I hang on his every word
Like a wriggling worm From the beak of lovely bird

He's the safe I'll never crack
The elusive dancer covered in black

He terrifies and confounds me
And I don't even think he see's

He is the closed book that I can never open
All the words I wish to say but can't be spoken

He's the poem, that I can never write
For me, he's the moon glowing at night

My closed book, who's stories I'll never know
Because I'm the desert, and he's the snow

I have no job.
No finances.
And less skills than I would have hoped
leaving college.

But I have that piece of paper.
A roof over my head, still.
Some prospects of potential things on the horizon.

Everyone expects that once you graduate you can leave.
But then scoffs at you when you get into debt
for putting too much on credit cards.

I am sorry I can't afford to go get an oil change.
But I know I can't afford not to.

When your family almost loses their house,
and can on a daily basis
be called by debt collectors on final notice of some bill
we cannot afford to pay -
suddenly life is a bit too real to think that downing a bottle of
your choice
will magically make it go away.

Surprise. I don't want to be dependent anymore.
I want to work 80 hours a week
knowing that in ten years I will be able to afford that one dinner out.

Not only that we have leaders of our nation that will change everything
you believe to be good
and will implement everything
you believe to be bad.

That bubble rises.

A noose around my neck
of money drying up
it feels like I should put some semblance of beauty to work
and find some person to take care of me

No. I can find a way to support myself
with the skills I have learned at school.
Other students have before me
worked off the debt of higher education
and so will I.
Jobs will open up.
Opportunity will knock.
Failure will happen, but so will success.

Just one step at a time
not in front of the train like I have thought about
but forward towards true uncertainty of the future.

Don't worry, I will be still be here tomorrow and tomorrow.
as a force you didn't realize was there.
One day you might even remember my name.

I wander aimlessly here, here in this place where I
often go. A refuge where I come to be restored by the midnight air, ere that perfect silence into which I'm
thrown; and in which I can collect my thoughts &
know  -my percipience does ignite somewhere.

Somewhere off the map.      Somewhere off the globe.

Aloft in these Nameless Hallows, I travel lightly -because
my body ne'er goes... goes... goes...  in these, my echoes within -within the far compass of unerring tranquility: but what an ability
-what a beautiful bliss! to cast no shadow where the
dutiful exist.

  Lo!
           Suddenly a downpour hits!



  T'is Woe!
                             T'is Woe!


T'is Woe!  



                                   And, sullenly I resound her hiss.



I look thru squinting eyes as lightning is barely
lightening the glinting skies; the frightening bolts
extending and scarily resembling skyward highways
which have me verily trembling, hammered, amazed.

Tho I feel and see and hear -part of me does part with
what I fear -and the other partly remains enthralled- as
I tuck myself in so near, an attempt in thwarting the
violent squall.

Now I slog helter-skelter thru the deepening pool.
Seek I shelter like a tooling Creep or a creeping Tool.

                          

Thunder rips the sky asunder!



Those pounding noises sound like resounding voices,
                                                       ­                         voices,
                              ­                                                         voices
and then I wonder, wonder, wonder... if the torrent is my only
torment:


or

if I must also face my other self,


that half of me
that ne'er lies completely dormant,

that hemisphere that lives and breathes and moves by stealth.




This is my grimmest fear, when I must ask myself -for my Self

- which part of me I should
shelf.

I think I can abandon both,
                          you see:
but then there
would be
                     nothing left of me...
                                                    or me...
                                                *or me.

Is it you? or is it me?
Am I the sad one for finding happiness in the rainiest day
Or is it you for only seeing the sky when the sun is out?
If the Sky can cry when the world destroys it with its disgusting fumes,
why cant I when my sadness has engraved itself into my being?
If the Earth can shake in anger, when its people has left it in ruins,
why cant I when my anxiety has masked itself has my closest and truest friend?  
If you're terrified of words your friends may say, why cant I be terrified of the noises I hear in my head over and over again?
Your emotions are of this world, mine stem from somewhere your imagination has yet to be.