In my old house
there seemed an old spirit
or maybe a mischievous mouse

I use to lay
in my old room at night
tired of the preceding day

The house would speak
tales of bomp, crattles, and creak
and here's what it had to say

"Womp, boop, dat,
flush, whoosh, and crack"
late at night the house would say

"Thud, crick, snap, whip,
Bang, Bang, Bang, blip"
laying on my bed this trip

And in the morn
when the old blinds were torn
here's what the old house had to say

"Pop, pop, pop, pop,
slam, nick, split, lop"
the old house continued to say

"Whack, ding, bump, splat,
hack, ping, thwump, flap"
wondering what made it sound this way

And through the noon
and into the night
my old house chatted all day

As I lay here thinking
I get the sinking feeling
that I'll start making it say

"Go to sleep and good night,
don't let the bed bugs bite,
I'll always have something to say"

Epilepsy. Bipolar.

The words that we speak.

Shear words into our hearts, unfolding before our eyes. Both engrain a fear of desperation that speaks louder than words.

It isn't so bad when you understand them. Almost one and the same, unpredictable in their paths.

One has it, the other doesn't. The path that we both share, both unrequited. Like love. Still, like love.

We share.

Uncontrollable actions bloom forth from seizure to mood episode, blossoming forth an understanding that surpasses understanding to those to don't experience it.

And all that is needed is love. And understanding.

We share in that we both yearn for a world that understands our actions, never to be trusted from within. The pain. The uncertainty.

Are the same to those from the outside. "Oh, she has seizures." "Oh, he's depressed." The words we hear. "You're unreliable." "You're too much for me to handle."

The shame.

We deal with that which we cannot speak, yet we understand beyond words that comprehend. The path laden before us untrodden yet familiar. We push forward because we must.

And we'll do so again.

Together we'll conquer both or be consumed, unyielding to the torrent from within. Because we must.

We must.

Push forward.

That is the only way.

It's okay. I don't blame you,
most of what I have to say,
falls on deaf ears anyway.

They say the road to hell,
is paved with good intentions,
like the cherry tree split in two dimensions.

Here comes a rain storm,
so we'll see,
how that Great Man, begins to flee.

Uncle Sam says, I want you.
You want me to die,
in a battle of crude oil and some glue?

**** that ****, I begin to cry,
all the while they begin to fly,
to the other side of the desert.

It's okay. I don't blame you,
most of what I have to say,
falls on deaf ears anyway.

The children speak to their families now,
Why mom, why dad?
Must I despise that towel head?

Yes dear, they softly speak,
they hit us first so now we freak,
the **** out, and glass em, til they speak.

No more.

It's okay. I don't blame you,
most of what I have to say,
falls on deaf ears anyway.

Freedom and democracy, Uncle Sam cries,
Don't let their tyrrany make you shy,
stand up for your right to live and lie.

Terrorists they call them,
Oh, that much is true. True, true,
So that gives us the right to prosecute.

Those that resist.

Are terrorists themselves, says the NDAA,
let's incarcerate them without a trial today,
off to GTMO, on you go.

It's okay. I don't blame you,
most of what I have to say,
falls on deaf ears anyway.

You can take that to the bank he says,
that ebony clad man, dressed to please,
denies himself and his liberty.

They are armed with nucular weapons,
that balding man spits,
and down we go into the pit.

Of Hell-fire and brimstone.

Is what they preach,
to the masses, let's wash their brains in bleach!
You like it that way, modern Bushido man.

You slave, you sheep, you ignorant twip.

It's okay. I don't blame you,
most of what I have to say,
falls on deaf ears anyway.

The citizens all around the world
    have eyes that look like crystals.
Everyone is actually born with the same eye colour.
The same eye colour is blue.
Everyone knows that eye colours change.
Every time people grow up,
    they start to change their eye colour.

An infinity passes,
and it's only been,
seven minutes,
forty two seconds.

Drives
Entropy

An infinity passes,
and it's only been,
seven minutes,
forty two seconds.

A force has awoken me today, and I feel again.
In a drunken stupor, I pour my heart out,
expecting it to be devoured again.

And yet I commit,
the only thing I have to give,
time and time again.

What this brings to me I may never know,
but I expect it to take me and my mind to a lower place,
the voice beckons from behind the screen,
because it means so much to me.

I forsake all that I know,
in the hopes that the fire within me rings true,
to be trodden in the future I never knew,
the voice speaks from behind the screen.

The day's conclusion is never done,
even when sleep takes me on the morrow,
forever it beckons to me untrue,
why I should listen, I never knew.

Friends of old comfort me,
saying, "your voice is heard,"
but after the lights dim and the noise shuts out,
my own mind yells at me "get out."

This rhyme I speak is never meant to be,
a rhyme proper, but we'll see.
Yet it is my voice I speak this day true,
never to be found again, until this day is through.

Nothing tries a person more
than the fire of their own soul.

Fields of music
And caverns of light,
Fill me with
A void of night.

The organized systems of the past,
become the random numbers of the future.

We are what we are not.

"Crumb Control to Captain Munchie:
Any sign of foreign debris?"

"Negative. We've got Berry Crackles to the East,
Marshmallows to the West,
Graham Crackers at your six.
No imminent danger at this time.
Will inform upon foreign sugar filled morsel encounter.
Over!"

A canvas of possibility,
colored magnificently for the occasion,
yet inevitably disposable.
Though my life be short,
I witness the Joy of my purpose.
And they love me for it.