With pen in hand, I conjure worlds unseen,
From thin air, I summon stories pristine,
In this extradimensional tapestry untold,
My creations emerge as a sight to behold.

Through writing, my creativity blooms,
An artist's haven where imagination looms,
Through ink and paper, I breathe life anew,
Giving birth to worlds, both old and true.

In shadows' embrace, my past remains,
A 26-year journey laced with stains,
From childhood's depths, where trauma seeped,
A shattered soul, its wounds still steeped.

Through poetry's lens, I'll paint my tale,
In words that pierce, where sorrows prevail,
With each verse, a cathartic release,
A glimpse into wounds that never cease.

Through metaphors, I'll navigate the pain,
Unravelling scars, like cracks in the pane,
Yet, through it all, a flicker of hope,
A flame that dances, a resilient scope.

Through poetry's embrace, I'll heal the scar,
Transforming anguish into art bizarre,
For in Hammerspace, I shall reside,
A wounded poet, finding solace inside.

All the seconds that we've wasted
Looking at each other's faces,
Then one day we said, "Hello."
Never close the curtain on this show.

We made friends, then we made love.
We made war, you were above.
You said you were letting go.
You closed the curtain on this show.

The glistening in your corner eye
Becomes a tear that you cry.
I ask you why you have to go.
You close the curtain on this show.

Wall-to-wall the city beats
With hearts and footfalls on the streets.
I'm alone now, they all know.
You've closed the curtain on this show.

Like veins in arms, the avenues
Are winding anywhere, but you.
I wander with no place to go.
You've closed the curtain on this show.

Maybe someday I'll be seen,
Floating stillness in the stream.
Tangled in a bed of stone,
Having closed the curtain on this show.

I lived through my mistakes
I lived through the stress
I lived through the aches
I lived for success

I lived in moments of joy
I lived in optimism
I lived innocent yet coy
I lived through criticism

I lived and showed love
I lived and showed fear
I lived in belief of above
I lived a life unclear

I died because I was tired of all that came with living

Dont answer, "Youre different."
Because we ALL are.
That doesnt make me special,
Does it?

Journal entry
May 7, xxxx

She knows I love her, my creature. Of course she does.
There are still secrets between us; there might always be. We haven't decided.
You see, some lovers- they reach a point- where they dance that silent dance, and wordlessly through looks and smiles, will decide that some secrets will always be secrets. Others say everything, and find strength in doing so. We're not there yet. And so, some things remain unspoken.

A secret I keep from her now is- I know what she is, yes, but I can't help but think of her as the opposite sometimes. A thing not with dove wings and a halo, like the paintings, but a creature with thick, rubbery wings. Heavy horns sitting on her head. There is something uniquely dark about her.

There is so much I still don't know. There is a heaven, is what she's told me. It isn't as beautiful as you think, she says. When I ask her if there is a God, she looks away. And I know there is something in my question that brings her pain. She has never answered the question.

She still walks to her lake. (Yes- it's hers now.) She visits it often.
She does it at night, when I'm asleep. But I wake easily in her presence. I've caught her walking towards the wood. I know it's the lake she goes to. It must be. I've never followed her.

She thinks she hides it well. But I can tell there is a rage. You visit your lake in secret, and what would you have to hide, if not the fact that over there you must be inflicting yourself with some violent ritual. Something I should not see. You must have some kind of terrible thing inside of you. Divine grief, or envy, something that must be gnawing at your heart. I can see it in your eyes.

Why won't she tell me? I worry sometimes that I'll never be allowed to help her. I suffer with these thoughts, and she doesn't say a thing.

There are silences like arrows, aimed at you, meant to **** you. Meant to maim the heart. But not hers.
Her silence is the kind that hurts to look at, because you know it isn't a choice. The more I **** the more her throat seems to tighten. It's as if she wants to tell you everything, but physically can't. As if telling you was an arrow. As if telling you her truths and her fears would

  **** her


I want to know why she goes to the lake, I do. I want to know what happened before. What is God to you, what has he done? Tell me please, even if I am not enough, even if I am just the rabbit you tell your sorrows to. I may be from another world, I may be the animal unable to ever understand your pain, but my ears are long and my eyes are big and I will listen and watch you intently. I love you.

Sometimes I think I'm too small. How could a thing like you choose a thing like me? The thought used to **** me. I'm learning not to spiral. Even if you won't help me. I have to stay strong. I have to show patience.
Yes, if she wants to keep her secrets, then keep her secrets she must. I worry about her, but what can I do. I can only be patient. I can only do what I can. I can only love her until she decides to bloom before me.

My angel who howls by the moonlit lake.
I will wait for you.