My eyes can trace the next steps
carefully caress the footprints
As they're within several feet
and at the distance
My vision can't be beat.

But the steps seem to travel further
Wuthering winds blow dust over them
and my vision becomes blurry
I'll lose sight of them soon
If I don't hurry.

Myopia is so commonplace
Commenting on its existence
seems silly to me
But I'm a slave to my glasses
Without them, I can't really see.

Failure is not kind,
there is no soft landing,
only a pillow covering your face
and cutting off your wind pipe,
till you feel you are done,
for once,
but you're not.
The pillow comes off your face
just before you admit defeat,
and you push forwards,
even if you have no will left inside you.
If you fail again,
you move on,
never learning that,
failure is kind.

Walking through the cemetary
I wonder very desperately
why each and every gravestone
lacks the name of the dead soul.

In a cemetery of broken dreams
and people who died too young.
Is a gravestone that reads stoically:

"Here lies the one who once sung
a thousand words every day
and a thousand words every night,
until she sang her last words
and popped a lung."

I can't believe these words I read!
What a tragedy it must be
to die before one
can ever complete the song they love.

Next to that burial site
of the singer with no name,
is another morose stone that reads:

"Here lies the one who took aim
at a thousand targets everyday
and a thousand targets every night
until he finally missed one
and made himself very lame."

I can't comprehend the pain he felt
as he worked so hard
and look where his efforts got him!
He shot himself.

Several concrete slabs down
is another grieving stone
It reads:

"Here lies the one who had sewn
a thousand stiches everyday
and a thousand stitches every night
Until they finally stabbed the needle
right through to the bone."

Why must they hurt more
when trying to fix themselves?
Now the art they created to wear
will never be worn by anyone.

In the cemetary of broken dreams
and people who died too young
are gravestones that share the essence
of who the unnamed soul was.

The townspeople gather 'round
this filthy street with nothing on their feet.
Silent nature of this procession
keeps a leash on the tongue of this confession.
Ravens and crows lead the way
to the gates of the final resting place.
And their stares linger close behind
they'll say that this is the curse of mankind.

Labeled.
Everyone is now labeled.
Everywhere I walk,
They are looking down
at the pale ***** sidewalk,
With the disgusting whispers
that are carried to them
By the treacherous wind.
Shunned.
They're all shunned.
Everywhere I am,
people keep ignoring them
Or give them dark looks,
that not even I could avoid
Those dark beady eyes
Burning their sensitive backs.
Tonight.
They're here tonight.
Even I can see,
That they are always smiling
And not a single worry bothers them,
The soothing whispers
were carried gently to them
By the beautiful, soft wind.

and the first question that came to my mind
was how on earth did I even survive?
Because I know why I wrote what I wrote
and I know how much I choked
on the agony of words that poured out of me.
I know what I have been through
and these poems record it.
They know too.
And to a degree,
everyone who reads them knows as well.
But at the same time
no one else knows for certain
what exactly was my Hell.
How did I survive?
Why did I choose to keep on going?
Why did I choose to stop writing at one point?
Was I really that depressed?
I guess I was.

*I guess I was.

The darkness masks ideas
People,
Animals.
Your perception is not
what it can be.
Everything’s gloomy
Unreal,
Chaotic.
But yet we strain,
Our eyes to see.
Every dark figure,
Notion,
Object.
That reaches out
With unsteady hands.
To steady our
Hopes,
Dreams.
In this dimly lit world,
We believe,
That these figures,
Are not what they seem.

Staring out the window,
at the deep snow so white,
I feel pulled to the snow,
and the woods that are not bright.

I exit through the door,
and slam it behind me.
That statement shook the floor,
i'll go where no one will be.

My fingers are numbing,
as I trudge through the snow.
Beneath my black hood, my head is throbbing,
I'm not sure where to go.

Snowflakes falling,
slowing my steps.
Can I make it without failing?
I have to get what I once kept.

Moving away from the warm house,
back to the darkening woods.
As small as a mouse,
I feel, and hide under my hood

Long black hooded cloak,
to blend into the background.
Vanishing like smoke,
I am not bound.

Hood falling over my eyes,
but yet I can still see.
This is not my demise,
don't worry, it can't be.

I am the main character,
that has now reached the edge.
That wooded area is darker,
but it's better than looking out over the window ledge.

Now I enter the black,
I am swallowed by the shadows.
Fear is what I lack,
i'm not watching life through the windows.

Perched upon an unstable stone,
that made its home in shallow water
is a kind of woman who does exist.
The early morning brings mist
that settles around this daughter
who always ends up alone.

The brook murmurs softly to her
she places her palm on the surface
ripples form as the tension breaks.
And then the water takes
her hand down with purpose
to see how much she can endure.

Though this brook runs shallow
and its waters are calm and gentle
there is still a problem that remains.
Around her neck are heavy chains
and to stay upright is a struggle,
her hand slid as if drenched in tallow.

Her screams are her own to keep
as she disrupts the shallow water
rock shifting, body falling.
The chains' weight is appalling
crushing the will of this daughter
and in the shallows she drowned deep.

Hate,
is quite a strong word,
and I know i've used it
before.

But,
I never used it so freely,
I use it, when I mean
it.

You,
don't know the difference,
between hate, and
dislike.

I,
suggest you learn very soon,
or we will have some
issues.

So,
with all that said,
will you think about the strength in
words.

Or,
will you use them,
too freely,
again.

We remain inside an empty hearth
as ashes from a fire long forgotten.
They blocked the chimney so no wind can get in,
we remain undisturbed and wondering,
if tomorrow could prove its worth.

Then maybe we would have died for something.

You're moving ,
mocking my very existence.
The lights are your tools
to blind me.
And it's working.

But I will not bow,
this is not my final exit.
The battle has just begun,
and you, my reflection, can not hurt me,
I dare you to bow.

This ****** mirrored room is my mind.
But you can not be me.
...
*I'm the only me there is.

I'm counting roses and the sun's rays
and the leaves on trees that love to sway.
The rings on the stump that have worn away
I'm counting the very days.

I think of lilacs and TV screens
and all the movies from the nineties.
A bug's life turns into an adventurer's dream
Puddles become lakes,
leaves become rafts that the storm drain takes.

Hunting for clovers with four leaves,
Videographer of childhood memories,
Trips to the diner and gumball machines
How lucky to have known the Kodak queen.

Maker of cards and lover of art
no matter the inexperience of the artist.
I never found a clover with four leaves,
but I know I'm so lucky

Dancing, swimming, and jumping on beds.
Dressing up like a princess.
Light of our lives is what you said to me.
You're the brightest star in my memories.

Is it easier in the morning
to talk of days of endless play?
Is it easier after mourning?
I guess it's never the same.
Is it easier in the morning
when the dawn breaks?
Is it easier after mourning
to see that nothing forever stays?

No it ain't.

I seem to have lost,
my inspiration,
I don't know where it went,
it is hiding from me.
Every word I type,
is a struggle
to even come up with.
I don't feel creative,
I don't feel alive,
I just don't feel
right.
My thoughts
are locked up,
in a strong box,
that sits,
in the depths,
of my mind,
and my words,
to me,
don't seem to flow,
everything,
is all choppy,
and I don't like it.
I feel like
i'm dragging,
ideas,
out of my head,
letting them rip apart,
on the thorns my imagination
left behind,
and bleed slowly,
on the ground,
scattering,
and destroying themselves,
shriveling up,
in a ******,
pool,
of unfortunate ideas,
that never make it,
to paper,
and they die.
I can't remember them,
they don't sit in my mind,
and they lose their,
significance,
to me.
And I feel guilty,
because of,
this block.
I feel like i'm murdering,
my ideas,
and they're innocent!
and i'm killing them,
without a second thought!
I hope some inspiration hits me soon,
because if it doesn't,
then I don't know,
what I will do.

Coming home,
to see blank eyes,
on a young face,
is an even greater pain,
than seeing lifeless ones,
because,
blank eyes means
that he's just not living,
there is no joy,
and no hope,
that should be filling his young
soul,
there is only fear,
blind, panicky, fear.
A type of fear no child should ever
feel.

He fear's
where he came from,
every time we get him,
he's covered in scars,
and bruises,
and we can hardly do anything about it.
His eyes are so wide,
and afraid,
if I go to touch his unhealthy face,
i'm not going to hit him,
but he flinches,
like I will,
and it's horrible to watch,
it's heart breaking,
I can't stand to see this child,
hurt.

I've had nightmares of what happens,
to him,
and what's hard to stomach,
is that those nightmares,
are true.
This child,
not even a child,
this baby,
is beaten to the point,
where he is afraid,
of everyone,
and his eyes,
I can't look at them,
the fear kept there,
stabs at,
me.

The knife rips through my body,
over and over again,
and all I think,
is what that child goes through,
that he's tortured,
every day,
for just being there.
But he's not the only child in this scenario,
there's a little girl,
who just turned four.
She's never been to school,
and you ask her a question,
she just stares at you,
not understanding what you said.
She doesn't know,
how to do,
anything.

My family and I,
had to teach her,
how to put a shirt on,
when she was three.
She was three,
and couldn't dress herself.
What ever these kids go through,
every single day,
all I can deduce is,
one is tortured,
mercilessly hit in the face
till his mouth bleeds.
And the other,
can do what ever she wants,
but isn't taught anything,
and she'll be set back,
so far.

She'll never rise to the full potential,
of what she could be.
God knows were trying,
to do everything we can,
to help these kids.
There used to be three
in this situation,
and we were able to save,
one.
It's possible,
but it's so hard,
and I don't know,
if we can ever save
these other kids,
before it is,
too late.

Control your pace,
so you don't lose this race.
Your pace is strong,
then it slows.
And then it grows to
a height of speed,
that no one can reach.
You're ten steps ahead,
of those behind you.

You stop and stare,
at the finish line.
You're ten steps ahead,
of those behind.
You want to win,
but you're frozen.
The steps get closer,
and you hear them calling.

Nine.
Eight.
Seven.
You hope to God
that you'll go to heaven.
Six.
Five.
Four.
They're breaking down your door.
Three.
Two.
Run.

Run through those doors,
like the ribbon at the end.
Finish the race,
so you'll go.
And then you run very far away,
so you will be safe.
You're ten steps ahead,
of those behind,
you.

The ominous sounds of heeled boots
clack down the empty hallway.
Making it clear to those hiding
that they are approaching.

The footsteps are measured and slow
Yet loud like they want to be known
as the sound that strikes fear
into the hearts of all men.

There's nowhere to go
Nowhere to hide
the footsteps are apoaching
and we're out of time.

They are almost here.
Just one more corner.
The footsteps are approaching
the sound is like ******.

And when they arrive
we'll be gone for good
and when they leave
our ears will do us no good.

The sounds immobilize us
We can't breathe
We can't see
We duck our heads between our knees

We duck our heads between our knees
and listen while the steps cease
We pray to God
that they leave us be

We pray to God
clack!
they leave us be
clack!
We pray to God
clack!
They leave us
clack!
Be.

Night comes too quickly now,
the darkness smothers the homes
that are sleeping soundly on the ground,
and everyone is hiding in shadows,
no one made a sound.

The world in this moment is frozen,
but not by it's own choice
it's being held back by shadow hands,
they refuse to relinquish their hold,
they are indestructible, rubber bands.

Everytime a change is made,
it just snaps back into place
constantly in a gloomy depression,
where people are growing older,
but yet their lives are in a recession.

Note the changes young child,
because something is bound to happen
and those rubber bands will snap,
those shadow hands will fade,
and it will be your turn to adapt.

But those shadow hands will come back,
little child I understand your fear
but you have to fight them and survive,
that is the only way,
that you're town will become alive.

Shadow hands please let go of us,
you need to go
please stay away forever,
I will not allow this child,
to fight in a hopeless endeavor.

You're just torturing me,
I could be laying on my bed at night
and you will be there,
dancing above my head,
and all my tired eyes can do is stare.

Fight off your demons,
they spin wickedly
and they don't stop hovering,
I hear whimpering,
and I can't tell if it's me or the child they are smothering.

There are monsters everywhere,
in a town that sleeps so soundly
I can not allow this little child to fight,
in a place that is so dark,
bring me the light!

When the light finally comes,
I learn very quickly
that the child had an interesting identity,
my tired eyes finally understood,
that the whimpering, scared child, was me.

*Shadow hands please let go of me!

A child's soul,
is like a soft breeze,
blowing on a hot summers day,
making you relax,
and feel like you want to play.

A child's laugh,
is a contagious chuckle,
that makes you feel warm,
on a cold day
when you feel alone.

A child's smile,
is pure innocence,
that makes you feel,
like you are young,
again.

A child's eyes,
are the doorway,
to your own soul,
because that child's soul,
embraces your own.

A child's soul,
never truly leaves you,
when you feel like laughing,
and being carefree,
you know that soul is still alive,
and it's beautiful.

It's terrible to think
that our ship could sink
before it reaches
land.

And our words don't
have to work too hard
to dig our grave
in water.

But it's not time yet
to send an SOS.
Because our ship still
floats on.

Us three little kids run amok through the nights
creating our own mischief and creating our own frights.
We sneak up concrete steps that lead to wooden doors
and ring the bells right next to them and run away on all fours
Who? You ask, that we ding-**** ditch,
we've pranked humans, monsters, and once even a witch.
We once rang the door during the day of some creeper
and nearly had a meeting with the grim reaper.
But that did not stop our tricky ways
so we ding-**** ditch death, always.
For we're not the children of daylight
we are the children of the night

Have you ever had to fight the urge
to get in your car and drive
away from the cold,
from hands so old
that grip you tight,
hold you to the light
and mock you for being
unable to reach it?

Sometimes your dreams
have a greater density than water
and they sink into the depths
of one of the great oceans
that swirls and rages in your mind

Yet sometimes your dreams
need to be listened to
no one has empty dreams
they are as deep as your ocean like mind
you may not understand now, but you will

Sometimes your dreams
leave you waking up with one phrase
one little piece of advice
and no matter how much you want to sleep
you get up out of bed

Sometimes your mind is raging
and your heart is as heavy as a rock
that has a greater density than your mind
but those dream words speak to you
don't let your sadness skew your point
*of view

It was a clean break or so they say.
A simple fix.
No additional trauma
No need for drama.
It'll heal just fine.
Sure it was caused by the lover
of a girl who just became a mother.
She was lucky that their
"Poor communication,"
Did not end up
with a fracture that was comminuted.

I never knew
that a break could be clean or
that a fracture could be stable.

I'm still learning.

If we could turn the hands of a clock back,
what would we change.
Would we do something different,
or watch it all stay the same.

If we had the option to relive a moment,
which one would we choose.
One filled with happiness,
or one filled with sorrow.

If we could erase our past mistakes,
what would that make us.
We'd be people without character and conviction,
if those mistakes were erased.

If we choose not to turn the hands on a clock back,
who would we be.
We'd be strong individuals,
who accept what once was and what we can be.