i meditate
when the obnoxious sounds
of artificial life
and shrieking vocals
worm into my brain.

well, they try, anyway.
but they will never enter
if i am at peace of mind.

Peter Pan,
he never could die.
He could never grow old,
yet his wisdom was bright.
He took children on a journey,
to Neverland, they say.
But where would it be, if not on a map?
Where would they go, away?
Well, you see,
it's not like the tale.
They didn't sing on a grand boat,
raising a sail.
Peter Pan would reap the souls
of late children
who died to soon.
He couldn't let them stay,
he wouldn't let them brood.
The Robin Hood
of the reapers, he was.
To bring children through the gates of the Heavens,
where they wouldn't age,
it was his only cause.

A white fabric,
a curtain, perhaps?
I'm not sure.
It's covered with dust
that floats in the air
of the sunlit room
as I pull it off of my most
prized possesion.
Just the same as I remember;
ivory keys in perfect shape,
ebony keys in between.
A black glaze painted expertly
on fine sprucewood.
The keys are cold
against my fingertips
as they drift mindlessly,
creating song.

poison needn't come from a chalice,
it can come from words,
full of malice,
a strum of cords.

a reddening whip
on your back with a belt,
provoking hot tears
that could make copper melt.

You give my heart
such a pleasant, exaspirating
burn,
sweet, never enough to hurt,
like pineapple on my tongue.

The pines stood tall on the alpines,
the snow sat heavily, splendidly,
on the prickly branches
or the top of the mountains.

The sun may be bright,
but I've no use for it
for I am no plant,
I needn't photosynthesis.

They said
that you had played me
like a fiddle,
they said
that you had played me
like a pawn in chess.

Your knowing eyes,
they analyze;
Your curious mind,
ever blind;
Your vast intellect,
a grin of neglect;

You can see,
that may be;
You can spy,
but you will cry;
You can watch,
but you'll be a deathwatch;

You cannot be detective,
it takes the right perspective;
You cannot complete this task,
it would be too much to ask;
You cannot realize,
but you'd be traumatized;

You'd get quite a scare,
you couldn't bear;
It's quite a sight,
you'd get quite a fright;
Playing detective,
it's never fair;
Playing detective,
now that's rare.

I am amenable, but acquiesce;
you speak bombast words of poetic genius,
contumacious when I suggest candor;
must I be this elicit?

my poetic brilliance is nothing to boast about;
it is a curse
because the best poets
write with blood, sweat, and tears.

i hope to grow old,
someday,
and be ridiculed for my distasteful,
unwise poetry;
i won't need praise to fill a void in my heart that is meant to be youthful,
i shan't be fruitless and tired;
i will finally be happy.

If I defy
the word, rather,
the lies
of my superior,
my opinion is defined as
politically incorrect.

The delicate petals
of a poppy field
fall like the lives
of children
in Yemen.

You don't break a sweat
unless you're running from your problems.
You do not clean
unless you sweep your guilt under the rug.
You do not bathe
unless you procrastinate.
You do not sleep
unless there is too much to bear.

Tu devrais être prudent,
mais ne crains pas l'obscurité,
utilise la sagesse de tes cicatrices
pour t'aider à t’évader
la nuit.

Bright, big hunks of orange squash
open on a garden with leaves strewn across.
An oak litters withering, crippling leaves
that smell like cinnamon.

You sauntered up the shore,
onto the cliff- did you jump?
No, no, you were pushed; your mentality challenged?
We couldn't be sure.
You were pushed, he pushed you; Death.
The fall, was it delightfully terrifying?
It's not the fall that kills you- it's the landing.

My heart was shattered
before my very eyes,
each piece tainted
beyond repair.
Thus, I'll use a needle and thread
to sew my heart back together
making a mismatched masterpiece,
like a quilt.

Rain, rain, go away,
don't bother coming again on another day!
For I have no umbrella to protect me
from the crystalline drops that fall from the sky
and chill me to the bone.

Rain, rain, please do go away,
don't return until I say!
I shall alert you, I suppose
but as I said,
I have not an umbrella to keep me safe!

The sun rose above the city,
but the air was dense, heavy,
frozen.
Every movement, a click of boots
a scurry of squirrels
was amplified by the barren cold.
Raindrops from the previous night
fall down the lampposts
on the verge of freezing like tears,
stuck in time.

It's a special something,
a rarity,
to find a soul as good
as yours.

I never rebelled,
I would never yell,
all was well
until I fell.

Such fervour as thee recites the deciphered text of Gods, your vehemence is impressive.

'How agog, you are, from where do you find that spark?' I inquired.

'Only the fiery spirit of the life before mine.'

Stay calm,
close your eyes,
relax.

You needn't worry of what is to come,
do not fret.

You need only breathe slowly,
smell the sandalwood,
and enjoy the moment.

Renew the book,
you know, my favourite one.
I absolutely must read it again.

you may have suffered
discrimination,
harsh words,
an offense towards your identity,
but remember
to remain
resilient.

in every fable, every tale,
there will be a gatekeeper
to the treasure you seek.
a valiant hero
you may be
but pass through the gates,
you need not strength
but skill.
a sharp, quick mind
to answer the impossible riddle
that keeps you from what you need.

I'll paint a picture
with you, right here,
by my side.

Rust
on an old, silver bell.
It grew old, surely,
and the people dreaded its echo,
for it signified the presence of death.

"Who shall be taken by the Reaper?" they asked.
"Who shall suffer his wrath?"

Until the Reaper appeared, a dreary night it was,
to take Timothy McLaggen down death's path.

The people thought,
"The boy is too pure! You shan't take him whilst we breathe!"
"The boy is too good! You shan't show him what is under your malicious hood!"

But the Reaper took the boy with ease.

He was unhappy, you see
and needed to leave,
and he felt as though the Reaper
had set him free.

take me to rome,
let's watch the sun set.

I've never been satisfied,
how hard to I have to work
and dream
to be satisfied?

Maybe I'm just used to
this same old, dull routine
and this may be my normal.

How do I know what's out there,
will it make me satisfied?
I'll go and see then, what life has to offer
and at least I'll know I tried.

Every time I blink
a new world forms
behind my eyelids
like a screen,
like a dream,
so that,
temporarily,
I can escape.

In the twist of the seashell,
can you hear it?

The roaring ocean,
the seaguls,
the laughing and splashing?

Well, can you?

Oh,
so taboo,
wouldn't you say?

An act of love,
but then again,
not cherished
like it was in my day.

Two layers of skin,
cries of pleasure,
an elixir of sweat.

Beautiful, truly.

You used to ask me
why I wore shades indoors,
and I never told you
I wouldn't, I couldn't.

But now that you've left,
I suppose I can say;
I wouldn't, I couldn't
let anyone see the truth
in the mirth of my eyes;
The sorrow they held
so desperately;
The tears and cries,
the skeletons and lies;
I couldn't let them see
what hurt me.

It's easy to hide
when you have a shadow.
If you lack a shadow that lurks,
you hide at will,
never to see the light.

She roams hills and the verdurous woodlands
and on each eve of the new moon,
she follows the river,
making merry and becoming drunk with mead-

She had wanted to be with bairn,
to have man, woman or child accompany her through the forest,
but she only knew the fawn-

Alas, as she fled her role as royalty
when the King and Queen were born a daughter,
she wished upon a jolly gay key of brass
that they would birth a son.

And so they did,
with good luck and omens,
she would celebrate not with a record of vinyl,
but with the strum of a harp and the song of quail.

There are phases in your life,
a constant change on the daily,
and by night
the moon shifts with you
in all of its glorious phases.

do you ever
just wanna say
"**** it"?
yeah, me too,
but we can't.
we gotta keep going,
and i'll be your shoulder to cry on.

The gaiety
as you show me
your soul.