Tell me sweet lies. I want to get lost in your thoughts.
I want to let your emotions wash over me.

Because I have feelings for you, of which I am scared. I am only a fool for you.

Tell me pretty lies, say that you love me. Lie if you must, because I am only a fool for you.

I want to get lost in your love. Because my feeling for you disorient me. They nourish and suffocate me. You're the only thing I think about, and I act like I don't even care. Tell me your pretty lies, and tell me again that you love me.

I want to believe your lies, let me drift into the night believing. I am only a fool for you.

Touch me, see me, know me.

Read my words, heed my wisdom, embrace my passion.

Live with me, trust in me, love with me.

Be mine - now, and forever.

As we made our way up the mythic Greek ruins of a castle that is no more, she turned to me, smiling. Her gorgeous smile and lush hair glistened in the sun, rivaling the beauty of the raw nature that surrounded us.

As we stood facing each other on the old stone steps, she reached her hand out and grabbed mine.

"I love you", she said.

"I always will", I replied.

Standing atop the highest tower of the ruined castle we gazed at the calm blue ocean, the wind softly brushing against our skin, holding one another gently, swaying.

"Do you think it'll always be this way?" she asked, with true wonder in her voice.

"Always", I replied.

On a cold foggy morning in the ****** dunes some leagues from my home I rode down a path unknown.

The trecherous sand pulled the wheels of my bicycle down into the earth, deterring me from completing the upward climb towards the top of the promising dune.

With my feet in the sand and besieged by fog, I surveyed my surroundings and found that I was completely alone.

Weakened by the arduous journey through the dunes and unable to cycle, I pushed the bicycle aside and dropped on my knees to face the sand.

Alone and halfway up an unrelenting dune, I was overcome by a sobering reality that shook me to my core; the elements care not for our humanly struggles and, with no warning nor a shred of notice, could, and likely will, decimate us.

With renewed strength and strong will to conquer the dune I picked my bicycle up from the sand and pushed upwards.

As I scaled the dune and finally reached the top, I gazed upon my surroundings panoramically, realizing the alarming yet beautiful reality; Though alone in parts unknown, I was surrounded by nature that embraced me and showed me its true beauty as reward for overcoming its many challenges.

With sand at my feet and fog all around, I no longer felt alone. I had myself and nature to keep me company, and that is all I needed.

Social media reeks of hate and prejudice.
Every discussion and every post only plays into the hands
of the ill-informed imbeciles who corrupt it with their idiocy.

Why bother with social networks? The news we receive are all biased or false.
Why bother participating in discussions? They all lead to more hate.
It seems that the only true form of honest, respectful discourse remains physically between discussants,
where people must own up to their words under threat of shame.

I once knew a man who rose at dawn.
Inspirational, he was, kindling fires of purpose in the
hearts of young men.
Striking fear in his foes, and comfort in his kin.
Strong he was, the man who rose at dawn.

Many have wondered who he was and where he had come from,
and whether it was he who rose at dawn, or had dawn rose to greet him.

Without fear or trepidation he rose at dawn,
welcoming the beginning of each day with a song.

We ought to asks ourselves where he is, the man who rises at dawn.
We ought to reach the deepest chambers of our hearts and wonder,
are we the man who rises at dawn.

He cocked the gun and pulled the trigger.
"He couldn't handle the disabled life", they wept.
Though he wasn't perceived as the sharpest of all,
in the end, he was the most compassionate and, perhaps,
wisest.
He cocked that dreadful gun and pulled that horrid trigger.
"This was no accident", they lividly proclaimed.
And though his faculties failed him he went on,
until the very end,
the most caring and, perhaps,
wisest.

Weakened by life and roughened by time she returns to her home,
now a cradle of baseless hope.

Blissfully ignorant she starts her days, hopeful,
only to routinely end them deceived by life, debased.

Nihilism greets her in the beginning of each morn, feeding on what is left of her dreams.
Burned cigarettes fill her ashtray and empty liquir bottles dress her excuse for a living room. A mucky, stained carpet ties the room she is forced to call a bedroom.

Destitute and devoid of reason she contemplates her purpose.
"Purpose?" she wonders.
Perhaps some people simply don't have a purpose.
Perhaps a lost soul, like her, has no purpose.

With a heavy heart and one-luggage-too-many she hurried to her
boarding gate in an attempt to catch her flight.

Just before going through security she stopped and turned, and teary-eyed asked: "will I see you again?"

Unable to speak or console her he held her tightly, stroking her hair gently and caressing her back softly.

"In another life, dear."

In another life.

By the time I was ready to listen to my father's counsel,
I was already haunted by mistakes I made not listening to him.

I wonder, will I only truly listen to timeless counsel,
when my own children shall ignore my own?

Why is rising from the ashes like a Phoenix
inexplicably preceded by our eventual demise?
Is failure truly a part of life,
or have we been conditioned to believe as much,
by those who wish us blissful, and sustained, ignorance?

Even if I had the answer,
would you want to hear it?
Are you even ready?

Do you often, just before slipping away
into a dream, find yourself agonizing over what it all could have been?

Are you not numbingly furious over the things you didn't do,
and the ones you shoud have done,
yet couldn't?

Are you haunted by your past, and sailing towards a hollow future?
Is your present devoid of purpose?

Take comfort in knowing that, aboard the ship you command
sail the rest us of us lost souls,
wandering the endless sea of life,
rowing towards an unreachable horizon.

Why do we write, really?
And where? and when? and to whom?
Does it all matter?

There's a beauty in poetry, in that, much like emotion itself,
it fills us with passion, and challenges us to explicate the abstract.

There's a beauty in attempting to unravel the mysteries of the mind,
in the form of a poem, shared across a world wide web,
of like-minded balladeers.

Why do we write, really?
I ask you to wonder what our lives would rather be
if we didn't.

No time like the present, they all say.
Yet such a timeless, indisputable widsom slips our grasp
by the end of each day.

No time like the present, I have often heard you say,
when you'd require me, and much to my dismay.
What it is that you need of me, I wonder,
as the night swallows the sun, and ushers in the thunder.

No time like the present, I resentfully accept.
For there is no better time for you to haunt me,
than the almighty present which, to me,
is full of angst.

Don't you despise rhymes, past or future?
Acceptable, I guess, for they exist now,
as there is no time like the present.

We ought to find the one who makes it all worthwhile.

What value is there in celebrating one's successes alone, I wonder.

I often find myself full of dread and trepidation that something great will happen to me in the absence of that someone.

We ought to find the one without whom nothing will be worthwhile.

When does a man realize that having taken the road least travelled was,
perhaps,
the least favorable action to take?

When does a man realize his mistakes are beyond fixing?

When does a man fully appreciate the gravity of his actions?

Too late, I wonder?
Too late, I believe.

The hot July sun had managed to blind her,
the wind struck her face, carrying the ocean's salt with it,
coupled with some white sand from the Andaman's ethereal beaches.

She was free at that very moment, seated on the back of that scooter,
without a care in the world, riding out into the horizon.

With nature to her left and the Andaman to her right she was free.
Allowing herself to let go of him and throw her hands up in the air she screamed,
freedom!

She tried to pursue that feeling ever since, often to no avail.
But it matters not for, at that moment, she knew true freedom,
seated on the back of that scooter, on that hot July afternoon.
She was free.

His mind, weakened by fatigue and liquor, gave in to
the soothing, progressive rhythms of the music he lost himself in.

His ache, amplified by the bass, paralyzed him.

His sorrows, strengthened by the piercing melodies,
broke him.

Delirium had consumed him, and life had won again

My heart trembled immorally as she undressed.
While slowly removing her stockings she smiled,
and foxily met my haunted, bewitched gaze.

"Isn't this your dream?", she seductively inquired.
Reckoning with my wicked sin I unwillingly yielded.

Lust had consumed us both, corrupting us.
Entranced she fell into my arms, moaning.

"I can't", teary-eyed I objected to no avail.
Stunned and dismayed she gathered her resentful self.
"I thought you wanted me", she objected.

I can't, couldn't, and wouldn't.
Could you?

We live life in the fast lane,
trading our privacy for a false sense of social interaction.
We maintain online personas that mask our true identities,
projecting our idea of a perfect life onto the virtual world,
hoping it, in return, would rain accolades upon us.

Dubiety lurks in the shadows, visitng us in our dreams,
feeds off of our fears and struggles.
Latching unshakeably onto our consciousness,
dubiety carves its way into our very heart,
corrupting, destroying.

Carpe diem, you'd often hear from
the fools who live in the now,
and the blind who possess neither a future,
nor a past worth recalling.

Dubiety, the not knowing, the uncertainty,
the fear of failure, the lack of guarantees.
Leap of faith? Perhaps such leap is what we all need.
I know it's what I do.

I wrap my hands around her, and whisper words of love.
I promise what I cannot, and vow to return, and to love still, and always.
We gaze at the horizon, our feet in the water.

"Will you come back?", she asks sheepishly.

There before me stands my lady, as beautiful as I have ever seen her.
In fear and trepidation, I say "I will", and she grins, and then sheds a tear.

She knows this to be the last time, but she does not mind.
She lives in the ever so brief moment, escapes my grasp, and marches.

She marches, and she is no more.

Grandmother, not my own, gently handed me the rice bowl, a soft smile I have never seen before on her now aging face appears, and she quietly whispers: "What are you running away from my child?"

Allowing the rice bowl to freefall and unable to contain the guilt, fear, shame, and trepidation that have held me hostage for so long I began sobbing uncontrollably.

"I know that I do not know, grandmother.".

As we sat there on grandmother's old wooden floor and watched the stars decorate the skies above I couldn't help but come to the earth-shattering realization, "Is that all?".
Perhaps it is.

She strides quietly towards the sun, the wind in her hair, a smile upon her face, she is free.
I see her today, young and zealous, hopeful and infatuated.
I love her today, fierce-hearted and ambitious, shy and warm.
I miss her today, lovely and passionate.

She is mine, and I am hers.
If not today, then tomorrow.
For tomorrow is forthcoming,
and our love eternal.

Photos of childhood friends have found their way to my desk tonight.
Puzzled, perplexed, and excruciatingly nostalgic I sifted through them, often tearing as I did.
"Where have the years gone?" I wondered, utterly stunned by the reckoning that what was once shall never again be.
One particular memory, that of my friends and I sharing in the wonderful vista of our childhood park, has ushered itself into my consciousness. I remember the dusk slowly covering the skies and ending our bond and with it, of course, my inevitable departure. I had not come to terms with the truth, although it has taken refuge deep within. I knew that night that the dusk has marked the end of an era after which my friends and I shall be but wraiths in a time that is no more.
I see their photos today, matured and cunning, and I wonder, "where had my childhood darlings gone?".
My childhood, that which has preceded my voyages abroad, has ended ever so abruptly, without warning or a hint. She has escaped me so gently, so conspicuously.

I so strongly miss sitting atop that grassy hill with my darlings, gazing at the dusky heavens and thinking the world was ours to command. I so strongly regret saying goodbye.

I so strongly regret never returning.
Perhaps it is I, now, the forgotten wraith in a time that is now, yet is no more.

Do you remember the past, truthful and unobscured?
Are your memories genuine, or are they jewels in a dead pirate's lost treasure chest?

When lying in bed just before disappearing into the void of night, do you remember where it is you thought you will be? And are you there?

Do you even remember what it is you wanted?
Remember.