If poetry is all about being human,
tell me: what is life worth?
For every Shakespearean verse
appears another, less rehearsed.
If our race has no end,
tell me: where are we running to?
Life is in the journey,
or so say
those less traversed.
Perhaps the truth lies
within ourselves.
Our own deceiving silver tongues
and two-faced cries for help.
If we just keep on writing
will the words mean something
else?
Or maybe if we stop thinking
we'll free ourselves from hell.
The stroke of pen on paper.
The slicing of a throat.
Maybe being human
involves a bit of both.
As for I,
I'll keep on running:
barefoot towards the coast.
Yet the castle in the sky will be my final
au revoir.

[ARH]

in tiny capsules
lavender lullaby as
sweet blue diazepam

Fake hair
Fake name
Fake nails
Fake game

Fake smile
Fake tan
Fake brow
Fake can

Fake laugh
Fake lips
Fake brow
Fake ****

Buried deep
Under all this fake
Is a girl
With money t' make

but oh...
how can you miss someone
you never actually met?

I have danced through the mists
Drifted along many peaceful shores
I have sung in the drizzles and rain showers
I have fallen asleep to many different melodies
Through many seasons I have wandered aimlessly
Warm springs, hotter summers, golden autumns,
And perpetual winters
I have shivered in the cold
Hidden 'neath blankets of ice and snow
I have never withered, not even once
My skin is still fresh and green
I still have many more days to see
Many more seasons to welcome
And though I have become separated
From my beloved old tree
I still live
Though unnoticed by all

**~Marian~