Oh, you pretty little lump,
Laying on the ground, you flail
Your arms grasp, feet kick,

Further, and further, you slip
Down, down to the darkness of death.
You cry out for help,

Yet music still pounds
Loudly, as my axe makes canals
For your sweet blood to flow,

Crashing on the floor.
Finally, your heart stops,
And I discard

Your severed body
and hang your head with the rest.
Sweet dreams, my love,
And now you may sleep.

There once was a madman in Maine,

                                                         ­                Who though relentless, went insane.
He got locked in his house,
                                                          ­
                                             And murdered his spouse,

                                                        ­                                     And no more, he felt such great pain.

Time stopped. I had no bearing as to who, where, or what I was. All that was in my presence was the high, rolling desert painted orange with that odd sand-mud that he called “Geonosian rock;” his ebbing backpack being pulled from his shoulder, just like the ocean tide; his canteen bottle, lidless, slipping out of the rear pocket and whetting the sand with the boy’s quickly diminishing water supply; and the boy, Davy, being torn helplessly from safety by the cool, malevolent hands of gravity, and into the crevasse.
Reaching out desperately for the boy’s damp, warm hands, I grab a hold just in time—to consciousness, as he plummets and I stare wondrously; dumbfounded by my own ineptness in rational thinking. the boy is gone. Davy, my own stepson, my ******* child whom I would do anything for to prove my worth to his mother, Mary, who was the token to happiness with a new family, was ripped from my grasp, and eaten by the New Mexican terrain. So I delved after him.

There sits a certain love for a being,
An animal that dwells in caves at night.
Could naught compare to the act of seeing
Something as beautiful as such the sight
Of you, my darling, sweet, and cuddly bugbear?
You feast only in the glow of the moon,
But your victims’ cries of pain, I can hear*
Tearing limb from limb, you care not to swoon.
Peeping through a hole, I spot your brown hair,
It is grimy and splattered with some blood.
Once I strip your skin, I shall have a pair,
To hang lovingly over my mantle to brood.
My darling, sweet bugbear, should you exist,
You would be the greatest game, I insist.

Sometimes,
I sit, legs folded,
Hands idle,
Thinking, “What have I done?
“I’m going to watch myself grow old,
“As I wait…
“For my story to unravel itself in my lap.”
Last summer,
Working my hardest,
I wrote twenty pages in two weeks.
Now, I’m lucky to write half a page,
In one day.
I wait for my story to unravel itself in my lap.
Thinking, comparing myself to Stephen King,
Who writes ten pages a day,
“How can I ever be a professional author?”
I sit still.
Motionless, laying in a pool of my own dread,
Watching-
The clock ticks by,
5:30 becomes 6:40
becomes 7:45,
Off to school,
Where I do nothing but think
Of my friends and enemies trapped
Inside my computer,
Waiting to escape the jail that is my story

I may not be an author- or a poet,
But when I scrawl these words down on paper-
Or type stories on my cracked, 14 year old laptop,
And get up at 5:30 for the sole purpose of furthering my career,
I feel like a **** good one,
I Sip on a warm cup of coffee,
Spawn characters that shout out, “Hey Jack, that ain’t me!”
When I forget that I can’t use Samuel Chayner in a way
I could use any other of my creations,
Because they’re all different,
With many facets to make every one original,
Because in my mind, I can be the best author,
Or the best poet,
When I sail on open sea,
Taste the salt water and smell the fresh shrimp,
I can hunt for a colossal wail,
Call me Ishmael,
But as I start to dream up another world,
Where artificial intelligence was created
In the early twentieth century,
Where these barbaric southerners
Don’t know what to do with such
High-tech automatons, but to make a quick buck,
Where I can make my own family,
With their own disputes,
Of whether to go to college in 1910,
But the mother might lose her son,
Her one true friend,
Who could hold her when she was sad,
Who would simultaneously be her sweet little baby,
But she won’t accept it;
She won’t bury her decomposing son,
Because she doesn’t have the heart to bury him alive,
Or because, in my mind, they are my playthings,
I could have the mother move along,
Try for another child,
But this is my mind, and I am the author.