I am a poets journal,
in trust of verse that has been tilled.
Plying emotions that play eternal,
on pages not yet filled.

Joy will sometimes overflow,
on pages not yet filled.
Perhaps to reap what it is I sow,
of thoughts not yet spilled.

As myself, I struggle to rebuild,
some eyes still see my weakness.
On pages not yet filled,
you can almost feel my bleakness.

There is no stopping memories,
even if my heart should still.
Look beyond that which binds me,
on pages not yet filled.

How do you feel anger,
when you won't allow it to feed?
You don't attempt to digest it,
give yourself the release you need.

How do you feel joy,
when only hollowness prevails?
Existing is what you do,
when life for you has failed.

How do you socialize,
when alone is all you need?
when behind the doors is safe,
no interaction is now your creed.

How do you feel anything,
when its all been stripped away?
Placed somewhere deep inside,
away from the light of day.

How do you explain all this,
to those that walk not your path?
When to them it is so easy,
to feel, live and laugh.

This, I do so, willingly.
Without reservations of the heart.
I offer my shoulder to thy wheel,
my strength, to thus impart.

My voice, I lend to your cause.
Champion, to which you undertake.
My arms, I spread to encompass,
kith and kin, you now care take.

A heart, that beats strong and true.
That has known joy and felt deep weeping.
One, so full of love for you,
I give, unto your keeping.

If there were the need so great,
as to sacrifice completely.
My life, I 'd give, for yours to spare.
This I do, so willingly.

There's a party going on upstairs,
your invited, to come and have a scare.
H.G. Wells, will meet you at the gate,
costumes required, hurry don't be late.

Vincent Price will be tonights D.J.
Halloween is his favorite Holiday.
He's spinning "Thriller", while dressed up as "Kiss".
Watching Claude Rains do the "Transylvania Twist".

Steve McQueen came dressed up as the "Blob",
he's serving up the zombie shish-ka-bobs.
Elsa Lanchester placed real bats within her hair.
While Marty Feldman keeps yelling "Frau Blucher".

At the stroke of the witching hour,
St. Peter amps up all the power.
A disco ball drops down from a cloud.
Out on the dance floor, forms a massive crowd.

Michael Jackson then leads them all in dance,
while Lon Chaney and Karloff take their chance,
to join the angels in harmony,
While "Monster Mash" is sang by Lugosi.

Even the Devil made it through the door.
He's the one sporting an Elvis pompadour.
So much fun is had by one and all,
at Heavens Annual Halloween Ball

Sweet death, have me tarry not,
greet me, for comes the morn.
Cheat the sun, that I may sleep,
complete as if ne'er born.

Entreat, do I, your embrace.
Defeat my heartbeat this night.
Meet me mid a last dreaming,
secrete this soul from sight

Amid the blending shadows of night,
we liberate reality's sight.
We seep into a realm of no boundaries,
where we feel fear, lust and misery.

We are now entrenched deep within,
a dimension of our mind called REM.
Where meanings to the visions snake,
into past and present, til we wake.

We stand aside as scenes play out,
while sanity, our id's, now doubt.
Where colors leech, yet blood runs red
and all inhibitions now are shed.

Rewinding moments and memories past,
watching how it was, our lots were cast.
We see those that are long since dead,
we stand before doors, options of dread.

That twist of imaginational delusion,
that gives rise to philosophical conclusions.
We were in a place, that never was.
But to our horror, exist, it does.

And in the dawn that follows dreams,
is revealed the truth of what we've seen.
In that lightening moment of lucidity,
we see within, our own frailties.