A shadow hides behind me though it is not my own,
But still so much a part of me that I can not disown.
A weight is pressed upon me, and yet I take it up.
I'm starved and dehydrated, and yet I hold the cup.
It's me but not myself. 'Tis I, and yet it's not.
Hidden in my past is what the present wrought.
Incapacitates, debilitates, and hinders how I grow,
The very things that I hold true are what I do not know.
Every lesson that I've learned is now so much of me
That every one that has proved false is true as true can be.
I don't believe the lies I've heard, but live as though I do.
I seek a way to still survive the lies that live as true.
My value is not what I own, nor what I make or tame,
But neither is it who I am or my simple name.
My worth is more than this worthless existence that I am.
But who will tell me truly? For there is no one here who can.
A need I have, indeed I do, and yet it's not fulfilled.
A need to work, to mass produce, to say, “The sluggard's killed.”
And so my worth becomes my work, so I, myself, I don't
For who can bear the great burden of saying that I won't?
I can not lift myself up, nor could I climb these rungs,
And so I sink here, drowning, as “beggar” fills the lungs.
It's time to rise, to shake off sleep, but how does one awake
When the hours of the day do not give but only take?
I don't expect myself to learn, so I can not hope to change.
How does one cope when all he does is nothing but estrange?


The Lure

I can not say with sadness what saddens me to say,
For night and dark around me stifle Freedom's day.
A pull does pull me onward. I go, I know I do,
But still within me's fighting the spirit of me New.
It sickens me to think it, but how I long to think.
The darkness is a horror, and yet I do not blink.
I welcome it with open arms and ask it then to go.
But whom am I now fooling? Me? But I do know.
I will not say I hate it, but I hate it all the same.
I love it every moment, but hate it that it came.
Oh God, You must now save me. Oh Lord, please hear this plea.
A soul is seeking freedom, and such a soul is me.
The whisper of the darkness does lure me to my doom.
But here I press against it, and here I make my tomb.



I haven't been quite this bad off in quite a bit of time.
The quiet of the quilted night, and silk of summer shine—
Both of these do harm the soul who seeks the dingy place:
The bar, the pub, the smoking room—escape from this rat race.
For quite some time I had forgot, forgotten all these woes,
The feelings of uncertainty, of youth, of loss, of holes.
All of these surround me now, and I am wearied more.
The thought of all that I must do: A locked and cedar door.
But here I press against it, for from here I must move.
There are monies t'be collected, and worth that I must prove.
But urgency just holds me back, and need does paralyze.
The light is just too bright, and darkness terrorize.
And thus you read this writing sired out of grief,
With vain intent to satisfy and bring about relief.


Rubbish Made of Gold

I can not work. I can not sleep. I can not play or read.
A weight is clinging to my throat, and somewhere I do bleed.
My blood is thick. My flesh is raw. My eyes are blind and dry.
A weariness has taken me and tossed me to the sky.
Heavenward I tumble. Hellward now I fall.
Thrown about by thunder. A gale to a rag doll.

I will not move. I will not rise. I will not dance or sing.
I can not even from this bed begin to take my wing.
I lay here still. I lay here yet. I lay and am unmoved.
I will not ever rise again until I am improved.
Skyward am I tossed. Earthward I am pulled.
Lit up by this lightning, like rubbish made of gold.

I have no peace. I have no grace. I have and have no fill.
This jewelry should adorn me so; instead I’m soaked in swill.
These rusted bits. This shattered gem. These flakes of gold of fools.
This pile, garbage, worthless junk, comprised of broken tools.
Air around me rushes. Earth evades my touch.
Pelted by these rain clouds I suffer nothing much.


Thoughts Thought

How immature to write my thoughts;
To write so you could read.
As if it mattered what I thought,
Or spilled this ink to bleed.
Who in this world will read these thoughts
And think they glad to’ve done?
As if I published this one thought
To shine light like the sun.

Yet here I write, and here I think,
And here I play and pun.
But what of that? Who doesn’t think?
Who of thoughts has none?
So this be it, I say, me thinks,
Because it is a seed.
A thought a greater mind sure thinks
Should not be given heed.


The Hours of the Day

What to do with empty days so full of empty thoughts?
The world in which a weary haze hangs limply as it rots.
And so much more have I to do, yet nothing is now done.
How I wish to be with you, to see the shining sun.
But now today is cold and chill with vague misgivings here.
The warmth of touch I wait for still, but wait with partial fear.
“Afraid of what?” I ask myself, but I do not respond.
It’s like that book upon the shelf unread, so I despond.
I hear again the haunting voice of one so distant, loved.
But here I’ve found so little choice, from her I feel I’m shoved.

Oh could it be that apathy has finally found me?
Or is true that I love you, but knew not what to do?

This wasted time crawls at my feet, refusing to go on.
And yet tomorrow will retreat before the coming dawn.
And what of that? What will I do, so weary as I’ll be?
So lazy, fat and long passed new—my soul inside of me.
It mocks me as it haunts me so, the hours of the day.
The value of a moment. Woe, for I delay.
I long for things that I have seen so long ago by now.
But who will show me everything? And then I query, “How?”
There is no need to end these lines to mesh with scheduled time.
But if continue symbol, signs, they’ll cease then to be mine.



I see just what I'm looking for, so wonder if it's me.
The eye of the beholder held all that it would see.
Mistrust I do, but is it true that lust is what it be?
Or is it mine and so the line points back and not at thee?

I want, but is it my wanting that makes you seem so lewd?
You ride an edge I can not hedge, and so must I be shrewd.
I can not say what I would say--that would betray the feud--
And so I watch you follow her; and so I sit and brood.

You never used to run about. I never saw you shout.
But since she came it's not the same so bring I my doubt.

I fear for you. I fear for her for she is dear to me.
You tread upon a sacred place I feel you should not be.

So much can not upon a page be placed without display
Of what it is that I believe goes on here everyday.
If it's just me and what I see I would be wrong to say.
But if my fear is far too near I'm wrong to silent stay.

You leave me in a place of rage, mistrust, disgust, and scorn.
I know not what to think or do, and so here am I torn.

I write these words to comfort me if all goes ill or not.
But if you are as I suspect, please know that you are caught.



I love you and I love the way your whining wearies me;
The way your griping never ends as you fight the sleepy sea.
You hit me with your little fists, enraged at your own pain,
And so I smile fondly down and grin that you're insane.
You dare not sleep because the dawn brings days you can not bear,
And yet you yell vehemently that you must somehow prepare.
My love, peace, peace. Enough's enough. No struggle's worth your tear.
I wish you sleep and comfortness. I wish you to be near.



I want to be alone, I do. I want to be alone.
And yet I want, oh, yes, it's true, to be with flesh and bone.
I stare, but she's not looking. I look, but she's not there.
I crave and beg attention. Oh Life, you are not fair!
I look with lusting longing. I long, but I don't look.
I'm caught, entrapped by beauty and skin's appealing hook.
For what, pray, are you looking? And what may be your gain?
You rant and spout out poetry as if you were insane.
I know not what I'm seeking. I'll tell you when I do.
But something from me's leaking like blood or morning's dew.
Tell me what I'm missing. What secret does she keep?
What holds the mind so spellbound the body does not sleep?
I do not wish her to be mine, but mine to now enjoy,
And so I see that selfishness is all that holds this boy.



I see a face in the mirror, he looks much like me,
But he's searching and looking for what I can't see.
A face here reflected with eyes cold as stone.
The lava is flowing and freezing the bone.
It's a wonder and marvel that I am still here,
That dust from the ground can spring forth a tear.
It's amazing and awful what she does to me,
That bone of my bone is not made flesh for me.
I am weeping and crying, but tears I don't shed.
I am tossing and turning alone on my bed.
She smiles with laughter, with mirth in her eyes.
Just such a person gives birth to my cries.
I would kiss and caress her and play with her hair.
I would hold her and tell her that I would be there.
I'd delight in her beauty as long as it last;
Then would the future have eclipsed the past.



Or am I weary?
Or should I be?
Awake and so unrestful;
It's like I never want to be.
But here I am indulging
In nothing that I want,
And so I'm satisfying
Nothing but a haunt.

Nothing here to grieve.
What have I to leave?
Alone yet much surrounded
As if this were a crowd.
I speak in muffled whispers,
Afraid to speak too loud.

Or is this living?
Or should I be?
Existing in suppression;
I'm fighting all that's me.
But here I am, a new man,
Old, and yet so young.
And so the battle rages
With songs yet to be sung.

I find I feel a fleeting thing,
A worried thing, a sting
Every time I find myself
Beside a youthful spring.
It resonates, reverberates,
Incarcerates, and baits
All with what intention?
On my nerves it grates.

All with answers.
But why afraid?
It matters not that waking
The dreams are there displayed.
So sound again the trumpet
That calls us all to arms.
With sword of tongue I'm fighting
The word which from me harms.

Oh, what is it I'm missing?
Why feel this way tonight?
Tomorrow fast approaching,
And bringing morning bright.
Has hope forsaken purpose?
Has purpose failed us all?
When will we meet existence
Untainted by the Fall?

The title
So soulless chosen words.
The writing
Just catharsis
Unknown like raging herds.

A cacophony.
Our one end.
And so we walk this weary earth
Seeking our lost Friend.
We search the faces of the young,
The beautiful, and pure.
But He is not a woman, friend,
So look not unto her.



It's little wonder in my mind why I find I fancy her,
For every day I see her twice, sometimes thrice, though not for sure.
But you are not quite so certain--this curtain has hidden you.
Thus others vie for my heart's space, take your place, like frost of dew.
The crowds and press of human beings quickly brings separation,
But underwater, undersea, it's just me: Speculation.
The way she feels and moves just so in the flow of water cold
Makes the moments with other folk just a joke and our love old.
Imagine me alone again, where I've been, and what I've thought.
These bitter words of things I've said in my head express me not.
With you I wish to be alone or just shown why I should care.
For what's the point of loving you if it's true you're never there?
But now I hear the outraged cry, “'Twasn't I. It's not my fault.”
It's true, so true, but even right, in the night it seems like salt.
So sapped and parched I go to sleep and will reap what I have sown:
The weariness of bitterness, and the kiss of a skull bone.


Allaywontu Elgril

Norgiven unt allaywontu,
Ere fie bon kay lof shol.
Cerc gof ay lomp on verm la-gue,
Wan est borg lang endole.
Sherngil dom wert ilgram, elgril,
Kay lom frong awsp delfong.
Jormelitong lof hazsinor
Erlay bon goflar hong.
Surp ein, sorpel, Soleran,
Orge gravven torrel.
Pertenaf er bawnerkan,
Ang dof lan kerp ellel.
Mokquyar hornbas, peliang,
Rorphash lenftol ah ren.
Sorsh bonikel ay verrilang
Nom felinosh cort wen.