Tales of a Sad Black Boy

Thoughts and Poems of Mine

Depressions Requiem  

Chapters

1. Poor Positivity

2. Crossroads

3. Relation-ships

4. Tonight I Killed Love

5. Moonlight Resonance

6. Invisible Oasis

7. Suicidal Love

8. Faith

9. Cognition Tempest 

10. White Light

11. Why I Write

12. Adam’s Cross

13. Fire Fly 

14. Sleeping Amnesia

15. SS Valentine

16. White Sheep

17. Tick Tock

18. Writer’s Remorse

19. Nihilist Paradise

20. Hiatus

21. A Loner 

22. Pride

23. Fear of Death

24. Quasi’s Prayer 

25. Worst Enemy 

26. Broken Pedestal

27. Perfection In a Portrait

28. Poetry

29. Object of Desire

30. You

31. Bad Samiritan 

32. Can I? 

33. Damaged 

34. Suffering 

35. How I Write

36. My Muse

37. Panic

38. Remember 

39. Waiting by the Window 

40. Straight Outta What Happened 

41. Vengance

42. Marble Maiden

43. Final Waltz

44. Re Am

45. Ghost

46. Happiness vs Hedonism 

47. Friends

48. Losing My Mind

49. Magna Opus

50. Moonlight 

51. Massagenist

52. I Used to Believe

53. When Life Hurts

54. Numb 

55. Time

56. I Write

57. Betrayl 

58. Seraph of the End 

59. Last Hope

60. Power of the Tongue

61. Skins

62. One in a Million 

63. Cloudy Future

64. Forgotten Love

65. Love is Like 

66. Haunted

67. Ode to Anime

68. Apocalypse Symphony

69. Last Check In 

 

Ch 1: Poor Positivity

You see, I was never one to believe in positivity for positivity's sake. That was a negative ,as far as I was concerned. The minute I learned that two positive signs aligned would not allow the battery to charge a device is when I stopped playing nice. No. Now as an attitude or principle ,positivity is powerful. However,  it is  simply the sail ,and until it catches wind the ship won't sale. I cannot buy into it. Faith without works is dead, and no one wants to shake hands with Lazarus like I. Dead man walking. Is that a paradox or do I need some OxyContin to observe the oxymoron. My heart is Robert Frost with a lit fire, because it's right next to my numbskull where I hold my pen to act as a lighter. Positivity is precious, but the moment a baby is born it has to be washed in blood to be clean of original  sin.

Where the birth canal of ignorance ends ,cynicism begins. I was five when I learned that heroes exist, but not everybody gets to be one. I longed and valued the heroics of Hercules and hated Hades like no other, until I grew up in reality to become an embittered .covered in ember .brother. The flames of wrath I have for the world burn deeper than the depths of the hell they threaten to send me to. You see, I held strong onto the light the world said would guide me. However ,I prefer an eclipse or black abyss ,because a world full of light wallows shadows to exist. And these sirens that serenaded me lullabies ,lulling me into leisure .have proven to be a myth. So I don't love the worl , I actually hate it. This feeling a polar opposite of my previous position-  a  shadow  my  positivity created.

 

Ch  2: Crossroads.

Life is filled with choices. A huge variety of intersecting avenues, routes, and crossroads.  The right  one is never apparent  or made  clear, nor are we  told  if there  is a choice that is clearly correct. I am at one of these very crossroads right now. Blind as a bat, but bats can echolocate ,and there is no organ offering me an amazing grace to save me from my fate. There is something called the butterfly effect:  to

summarize the theory, an event insignificant  as a butterfly  landing  on your  nose can be a determining factor in how your life goes. I once heard of a man who was allergic to them. It landed on his nose, he harshly sneezed, and then his lungs collapsed. That man died that day. If such a random event can influence the path I'm pushed to journey upon, then  does the  route  I choose  matter if my life is a kite  on a string  tied to such insignificant factors. Even genetics is a randomized sequence with the probabilities predetermined. Perhaps my passion was to pursue Pluto, but my life sentences left no space for it. Doesn't seem to matter how I plan it. Perhaps circumstance is the box we all live in. This life a simple game of chance. The  dice

rolls and we have no say on where it lands, what it's being rolled for, and who rolls it all. So at this crossroad, as a butterfly lands on me ,the epiphany hits. I am a blind man ,being led by hand ,who doesn't know where he fits. Maybe this is it. Perhaps I was led to this crossroad to realize life is a stroll through the darkness with no specific place to go. Its purpose, its meaning, the right direction to travel, something only I can know.  Is this the definition of faith?

 

Ch 3: Relation-ships

Loose lips ,sink ships ,is what they say. With that being said, there is power in the

tongue, and perhaps mine has left me powerless. I've witnessed so many  titanics

,and seen so many icebergs I'd rather avoid. That now ,there is nothing left to fill the void. The void .being me ,of course, because no boat or ship cruises this sea of emotions. What's kraken? Because after these unfortunate tragedies the monster that preys as others pray is me. I am the beast that lies under these waters, wading, watching, wrapping my abhorrence around like a creature from beneath. Until I’ve wrecked every single ship I see. You see ,relationships deserve to be sunken and I'll see who dives for debris. I see no method better to measure whether it’s true affection or temporary pleasure ,than in their willingness to enter this aquatic graveyard for sunken treasure. A cruise is nice, easy, relaxing. There you are catered to, cared for, and the waves are only a reminder that God created a vast ocean with great beauty to be beheld. However, it's during the storm, when the ship has

voyaged along the wrong angle into a Bermuda Triangle ,that you find who your real loved ones are. You see, few reach Atlantis ,and even though this praying mantis is more or less a pest, even in the deep waters of my soul something worthwhile still rests. A magical city, a natural wonder, a heavenly haven the likes of none you’ve ever seen. But, I don't believe in relationships, because to relate is to connect and if you read previously I can neither surface to understand nor shake your hand. I'm to busy lying below the surface protecting what no one is no longer willing to set sail to sea, and today as I sink another boat, I believe relationships will never be for me.

 

Ch 4: Tonight I Killed Love

Well tonight has been the culmination of the cryogenic metamorphosis my heart has gone through. When I picture love or personify the peculiar phenomena I no longer picture you. I talked of letting you go, but if love were a butterfly I did not let it  go

,instead, I crushed it's wings with such great strength in my hand that I not only bleed from the nails digging deep, but also from the deepest part of my soul. If I could wish upon a shooting star to take away my ills without interfering with another's free wil1 ,I'd cure one ill with another. I'd wish for the kind of amnesia that would specifically target the memories we have of each other. They say a chain of memories can even in death tie us together. I want it severed, plus I prefer Kunta over Tobi much better. You see Edgar Allen Lost Lenore and anguished for quite some time. However his shadow sinking to the floor will not mirror mine. That raven won’t mock of a paradise lost ,because I'd kill it soon as it did. They say one  of

Adam's ribs lied in Eve, and a part of him was a part of she, and I'd break all of yours to make sure you no longer held a part of me. I cannot erase the past, but whiteout works just as we11 ,you will be no part of any story I tell. They say the true opposite of love is indifference ,so it's time to give that a try and see if that can make up the difference. Because the tears of this clown has driven him insane, and perhaps only Heath on the ledge of his own unhappy hill of practical jokes can understand my pain. You see, in the movie the joker's smile is a scar etched into his face ,and mine’s is a similar case. My knee jerk reaction is to laugh at the concept of life itself, because to give you a true smile would be the ultimate joke in this Shakespearean comedy, but  I  digress, because  nevertheless,  I  did  not write  this  to  impress, but to impress

 

upon myself the will necessary to carry on. Because I’ve never buried a corpse that breathed so much life into me when I prefered death ;however this decision is for the best. I regard you to be living dead in the strictest sense. Because from this point on your epitaph has been written and you cease to exist-to me. Because if life is a game, there are players and npcs, and when I look at you. I'm sure now you know exactly what I see.

 

Ch 5:Moonlight Resonance

I'm falling down into my shadow, the moon smiles at me in mockery, as I hear the ominous melody. So scary, but it has already dragged me into a bleeding sea. The crimson, eclipsing everything. I wonder do I breathe, what I bleed, a nightmare it's true, don't let these waters engulf you. I see blues fairies all around me, offering their heavenly tears of mercy, as death starts to stalk me. I wonder if God has my fate in his hands, or has, the devil devoured my desolate desperate soul. I bank on the former hoping that I'm not alone, not on my own. You don't know, the meaning of isolation. Hesitation is not a hurdle for me, but a branded memory. It's ether, my spirit burns at a slow pace. Lately, I just can't decide if I should even be running a race. Please don't call that baton, a magic wand. There's magic in this world, but to that wonder I'm blinded. I can't find the power inside me, or Braille philosophy to walk undeterred, in a world so blinded. I weather the weather, but lost in the eye of this tempestuous storm, I can feel the dripping tears. I fold my hands in prayer and hope, God's looking out below. I hold my breath, fold my hands and take a chance, I raise my voice to the sky only to receive a avalanche. As for the climate, I've always been a climber, but my grip starts to slip, I feel the aching all up in my wrist, I need

something to take root or I'll be lost soon, gone with the wind, lost in the color of the iris. I can see the future clear as day, the knight won't fade away. I tremble as it starts to embrace me. I can't escape elm street on my own, will someone break the wall? The one that has ensnared me in this curse, truth is wine, but right now water is all that I deserve, and in this dessert of lies I still thirst. There are times where I

 

get lost in the seams of my dreams, and there are time's when my soul weakens to persuasion. And especially in those times, when I'm weary, worn out from giving my best, I just want to forever rest. Blue fairy don't dive in this crimson sea, of leviathans and treachery, because the belly of that beast denies even Moses. And even the power to part the see, can't part what’s inside of me, I've already  sunken.

So let me borrow those wings, slip them up on my feet, it is my destiny to run eternal. The darkness is my blanket in the cold ,and if I can be so bold it's the closest thing to light that reaches my soul. I climb out from my shadow reborn, and let the dark side take control.

 

Ch 6:Invisible Oasis

Snap, crackle, pop!! Here goes another Aesop, a tale of all tales on when you know you should stop, because if you didn't spill the milk ,there would be no need for the mop. Spilt milk is wasted nutrition just like a brain without thought is wasted intuition. A collage of sex, drugs, and money may taste like nectared honey, but the scrapbook of tragic pictures it leaves behind is nothing funny. A wasted collage, I stop and I pause, and ponder on the things we pass up chasing a mystical mirage. It surpasses camouflage, that's the world trying to fool you. A mirage is a fool making you make a fool out of you too. Not cool, more like dehydrated, because my spiritual thirst is what created this spawn of my mind and allowed it to be given birth. I search and yearn. I see it clear and near. The closer I get to it, the more my heart starts to fear. My primal urge urges me forward a bit more. I hear a sad song echo in the back of my head with an endless encore. I feel pins and needles, my breath shortens a bit, however I press on forward toward my reason to exist. Step one step two step three step four. My oasis awaits just a little bit more. I tighten my grip, I pump harder than ever, the climax begins that wraps this tale together. Monday I hated, Tuesday I berated, the hump I got over on Wednesday was much appreciated. On Thursday I thirsted my mother she cried. On Friday night they

forgot that I died. On Saturday they remember tomorrow is Sunday. They prayed for me that day ,then forgot me on Monday. An idol mind can lead you to warship some terrible places. In this dessert of pleasures, I died chasing an invisible oasis.

 

Ch7: Suicidal Love

. Poetic, prophetic, and a bit apathetic is what I've become. I watch, and see nothing.

I listen, but there is no music to the melody. I only know it's one because you told me. Where do I go from here. You are my North Star shining like the Northern  Lights

,only three times as colorful and twice as bright and I know you are the one. The matrix can't handle this truth and if you want proof I cannot give it to you because a grave is something that sours the pudding like nothing else can. You're sweet, I got a cavity and I told the dentist to blame it on you. It's in darkness that we find the sweetest things we only need to taste to see. You're kind. Your hands are the type of hands that can be rough as the callouses of a slave callously picking corn, yet ,gentle as the same hands that adorn the face of their child ,as they’re asleep ,and crack a smile. A rooster in a henhouse has plenty chicks to pick ,and eggs to lay ,but I must attest it's cardiac arrest .because the nest my heart must rest in- is yours. I  pour

until only a pore is left ,and my bleeding heart is so porous I'm at the door of death, and with every single breath I refuse to knock and struggle against the unyielding hand of that clock because before my time's up, I've made this rhyme up, and made my mind up, to prove I love you or die trying. Because in a world where dying is so easy and living is so hard you make me want to do both. The glass is past half now raise it and make a toast, as my feelings spill into yours ,and yours into mine ,from the taste of this wine I can tell we're in for something quite divine.

 

Ch 8: Faith

I ain't got the answers. Do you got em? You the one with the new God flow right? Don’t gods transcend reality and make their own.? Well where are these answers? Can you not touch the sky and make cotton candy sweeter than the sour experience life is giving me? Do you even know how lonely your prince is? Is there no woman you can sculpt from clay to give me to wonder at? Well ,peace god. You can at least give me that right? Can you give me a peace of mind ,or at least a piece of mine I can call a piece of mine to give me peace? If not, then peace, my idol, because you do not deserve the tidal. Why would I ride the wave of praise and surf the seas searching for your success when you are only the blessed. I need the one who bestows belief

,bequeaths the gift ,and bridges the rift between what’s reality and a myth. The predatory pray on the weak ,and cowards pray on the meek ,and the desperate pray when they have something for which they seek ,and I've taken that arrow to the knee and the direction it's pointed me in is to thee. And thee cannot be proven ,so all that's left is this seed-of doubt-growing in my mind’s eye. I've mustard the remnants of my faith and I wait for a reply ,or at least an answer to the question why? Why would I call another God: as in greater than all and all of the above :when there was no god  for me when  push  came to  shove?

 

Ch 9: Cognition Tempest

I apologize God, in case my faith was weak, and I gave up seven days too early. You see ,I am a cyclops going blind. My mind was the greatest gift you gave me. You see, imagine, you don't have to, but indulge me a bit, that a bird loses its wings. A bird uses  its wings  to traverse  through  the air, shield itself from the harsh  climates,  and in most species ,it's very  reliant  on the  condition  of its feathers  on getting a mate.  In a similar fashion ,I parade my intelligence  around  in a similar manner.  Socrates  is my Vouge, Plato when I'm inclined to a little Calvin Klein. I am not a peacock, but in today's society a man's ego is like a weapon and intelligence has often been my shield. Quite a strong one too. I fancied it impregnable, at least for the sufficient amount of time I needed it, but it's dented far quicker than I expected, and at the worst possible time. Then again, I always imagined I could fly away into the sun on the wings of wit and get away with it. I never imagined I'd need you as a parachute

,and I don’t know if it’s arrogant that you were not my wings in the first place ,or arrogant that the thought  never occurred  my mental  faculties could be  unemployed. I feel Hermes without the wings, a messenger with plenty of envelopes, but no way to satisfy the senders. Before Barry Allen was the Flash, he was a forensic scientist. He had the spark, it was just in his noggin  at the time.  I’m sorry  God, sometimes  I feel like my mind is my soul reason for existing you know. Cause all the research, studies, and observation, point to it as the social construct we identify as being  'us'.

Hell, once the brain goes the doctor want to send us to you. So God, I planted a seed

 

in the last chapter ,even if it never grows ,just let the world know that I'm here for a purpose, and then my purpose is to no longer be here. I Love You,  Taylor.

 

Ch 10: White Light

Life is about the pursuit of happiness ,and Happiness is a fleeting butterfly we always try to catch in our hands when it’s already escaped its cocoon. We just have to let it go. Let it be. So when we narrow the scope, and take aim, we forget that happiness has no specific name ,nor number ,nor season ,not even summer-time is a specific time you must be happy. Happiness is a fleeting feeling ,a fleeing feeling, and it's our chase for it that encompasses life. Because in life ,we do not chase despair, death, and grief. No, these things come for us pursue us passionately

without relief. And we run from them, yes, even those of us without feet. You see, the soul you run with requires no shoes ,and it’s something you never quite lose as long as you are you -and with this soul ,we run from things, but we also run after  them.

The way an infant stumbles and then runs after his parents in the store-right after he picks himself off the floor. Or the way a woman runs to a man ,or a man to a woman ,when his heart understands. You see, even as I feel a funeral in my  brain

,and the light of my tunneled in dreams go black. Something pushes me to move onwards, and oppose reality despite the fact. I believe it's because these rose tinted glasses aren't rose tinted at all. I just think my vision has the acuity to see the rise after the fall. I don't believe I ever write to make right. I think I write to make sure I'm moving in the right direction- a bit closer to the light. And even my darkest thoughts are shadows that the light made come true. So white light ,if my shadows don't scare me ,then why would you? Because we are drawn to happiness like a moth to a flame, even if that flame spells the end of this game.

 

Ch11: Why I Write

Hi my dear reader, sit down, grab a seat, you're in for a treat. I'm giving you something bittersweet ,but very good to eat. Digest this food for thought as our minds begin to meet. Writing is not putting pen to paper, ink to pad. It's a powerful telepathy that helps us get through the good and bad. You right now ,are  literally

,reading my mind. And sure, it's in the past, but it's still a tie that binds. Writing time travel, it transcends minutes, seconds, hours. Even 20 years from now ,someone can still be empowered. Writing is an art, you can paint pictures in the mind's eye with just words. I can depict ,and help you envision a lion, a tiger, a bear or a bird, a Phoenix, a chimera or something a bit more absurd. Writing is the epitaph not for the dead ,but the living too. Journals and dairies can tell the great tales of a you that is no longer you. You see writing is a canvas :,the color of your choice. It is a microphone to sound off for those that don't have a voice. I hate when people in their arrogance ,question the appea1 ,as if writing is a waste of time ,or as if the words aren’t real. A blind man will tell you words are something you can feel. They are the tourniquet for the human soul that allows us to heal. So the gift of being able to write is like a word puzzle or alphabet soup. The infinite possibilities are yours, you just have to decide what to do. You can shape the words into a twister, a earthquake or monsoon .If your world is dark ,you can create the sun and even the moon. Shooting stars can spontaneously appear to make your dreams come true soon. To conceive is to believe and to give birth is to achieve. To write is to give our imagination life :a chance to wander, wonder, and breath. It's the only I way I can

 

give a piece of myself to you without losing a piece of me. It's sharing the  fruit

,without killing the tree. And if the bite is sweet enough you may even plant a seed. This is what it means to write, and I hope it means as much to you as it means to  me.

 

Ch12: Adam’s Cross 

It's just me, and the stupid bear. Up. Four in the morning. Can't f*****g sleep. My obsessive compulsive brain gnawing at my peace of mind, and my idiosyncratic headache drilling of a piece of it ,until I Inevitably have to say peace to it. F*****g bear. I stare at those beady black soulless eyes of his. He looks so f*****g smug in his contentment. That, and my inability to reach such a state, just compounds my resentment. I hate f*****g teddy bears. Women squeeze them, cling to them, seek them out as objects of comfort. While the real grizzlies they seek to tame have to  be

a walking paycheck, a walking security blanket, a portable armchair. Something or someone for them to lean ,and make withdrawals  from .Whether it's their strength or 

their money, not to mention, you can't forget to be   funny

. That stupid f*****g bear, all he has to do is be cute, not just him, the women too.

 

Athena can be praised for her wit with worthiness in that alone, but let Plato ponder philosophy without rolling Sisyphus's stone, and he might be stoned. I don't mind being much more than a mime or a mind, but is a man so unworthy of a gem that he has to dye to give a woman another. Change his own colors to be worthy of lover. I suppose there was a certain luxury in the captivity of the female as a caged bird admired. Because being beautiful for beauty's sake was all that was required. A

man must build a house, brick by brick, cement by cement, with cards he's dealt in spite of his own intent. And then he must be content, or contend, or pretend, or make amends, if the quality of the home he has built can't house his family and friends. As if I asked for this disposition ,or my predispositions ,that have left me

 

riddled in this dysfunctional juxtaposition. Cause you see part of me is a human being, a man like any other man ,with flesh, blood, and sinew sewed together to make these hands. And in other ways, I'm just like this beady-eyed bear:soulless, aimless, stitched together ,without a care. I don't want to do anything, but just be appreciated for being there.

 

Ch13: Fire Fly 

The fireflies are out tonight. All glowing and fluttering about ,and you without a doubt ,have your light that shines in the dark. Your animus, your passion, your own personal spark. I don't know you. Your face is pixelated along with the rest ,in a crowded sea of people I will never wave to. No hellos ,nor goodbyes are  needed

,because as I watch the fireflies flutter and fly about ,I know without a doubt ,they are beautiful. What drives them? What do they desire? Why do they glow so? I will probably never know, but I don't need to. I marvel at their beauty. They are a cinema of their own ,and as the cicadas sound and add music to this light show  ,I

realize that beauty is all about presence, not recognition. So let the northern lights of your soul glow from that lantern within ,and paint that canvas of the sky with all the colors of the wind. Because as long as your light shines ,and as long as you stay  true

,one of the many fireflies admired in the moonlight might just happen to be you.;and that radiance is a gift greater than any silver or gold ,because the spark of a firefly has many stories to be told. So whatever you do, always…follow…your….light.

 

Ch14: Sleeping Amnesia 

Where Am I? Who are you?? Do you even know? My name? Well I've forgotten  it.

I've forgotten bits of me really. Lots of bits, scattered about in the wind like dandelions along a summer breeze. I can't recognize you. The visage is so similar, but what's beneath your mask seems so different than what’s beneath mine. I see many threads connected to you. An intricate interwoven web of friends and loved one's you cherish. Your beautiful brown orbs ablaze. There's an unrelenting indomitable look in your gaze. I'm simply amazed. We look so alike, but a rose by another name, even with similar petals, may still not be the same. Are we from a similar Eden? And if we are? What atrocity made God adamant for us to leave. On what eve, could this have occurred, it's a blur. I see shattered glass on the  floor.

Fractured memories are reflected and flash across my mind's eye. However, I look up to God and get no reply. Who are you? Can you speak? Are you a mute or a muse, or maybe, you're a blank canvas for me to use. What rabbitehole did I fall in because nothing makes sense. You not telling me about the past is making the present  tense,

,and filling my future with suspense "Stop." he instructs me with a gentle smile. "Be patient, and wait awhile, my child. I am you, and you are me. A culmination of events where I am no longer considered to be has occurred. And that's fine. In a spiritual sense You and me...we, are family, I gave birth to you and just like the sun you must shine like one ,because my story is over ,and yours has begun. The human memory

is a logbook, a manuscript, an autobiography authored by self. And as you have

none, it’s time to write more stories of your own-without my help. But trust me  ,you

 

won't be alone. You have friends as allies and plenty obstacles to overcome. And God will guide you in the direction to write until the time to enter his kingdom has come." "But how do I continue a story I don't remember? How do I partner with allies I'm not sure I can trust? How I do overcome obstructions if your own efforts weren't enough? I'm no better than you!!" He offers me one more comforting smile then passes me a quilled pen. "You know why this pen is quilled. Because words  are

like wings :they allow us to travel anyplace we want to go ,and take flight in the harshest of weather, and this quill is like a part of your plumage, that's why we flock to similar feathers. But ,you've slept long enough, it's time to wake. This is your birth by sleep, and trust me when I say-it's better to dream with your eyes open than your eyes closed and to be honest it's about time I've decided to take a doze." And with that-I awoke.

 

Ch 16: SS Valentine

The search for love is a quest many of us embark on. Ships have been sailed, rockets have been launched, and wars have commenced all in the name of love. Bloody Valentine indeed, and with zero remorse ,we proceed with this discourse. Love is the only language spoken in so many tongues that no one understands, but we all love to listen to. Sample the pallet we often do ,and we find wonder ,in the different colors, tones, and hushes of our lovers ,and loved ones too ,might I add. However, none is more so addictive than the amorous affection spawned when romance dawns. When it dawns upon us, it’s as a ray of sun when it hits our faces as morning

begins. A turbulence of eroticism, optimism, obsession, and envy stir within, and in a rare moment of brilliance :the calm after the storm displays its crowing glory. A covenant is made and while Noah will not sing its praise it is still worth the songs we sing. Because you see, a rainbow is a beautiful arc of color, a cocktail of visual

wonder, a bookmark for life after the thunder. It is one of nature's greatest expressions of beauty: bold, and brilliant in its decoration against the silver lined skies- and then-it disappears. No one knows where it begins ,nor where it ends, but in the end-it doesn't matter. Because love ,much like s rainbow is an unpredictable spectacle. It is never plotted, it is never promised, but it is a pledge. A pledge that greater things await, a herald of the opening of the gates, a clear display of the colors we are promised to paint-each other with. As I look at this woman before me, her skin is no longer a Carmel brown. A vast array of colors cover her smooth skin now.  I remember

 

the day we developed our connection, I studied her complexion, and dialed in on the reception ,to paint perfection-on her skin. And while on the outside she looks the same she looks much more different within-the art gallery of my mind. This is  what I imagine it feels like when we fall in love for the first time. With that being said ,I bring an end to my awkward rhymes.

 

Ch16: White Sheep

I wish I could empathize with the black struggle in America. I wish I could reach out to my brothers in the concrete jungle ,and break the mental chains that keep them confined in a cage that doesn't exist. I wish I could say something that lights their faces aglow as the ash falls like snow from the bridges burned in this country. I wish that I could summon Sojourner to tell them the truth ,and that Dr. King was here to remind them that the dreams in the heart of hopeful men are indeed bulletproof. I wish my brothers wouldn't bust caps until the graduation ceremony ,or maybe they forgot that Rosa Parks refused the backseat so there'd be a spot for me-for us. I wish that I didn't feel like an alien in my own culture ,and I wish I didn't feel like the blind man in the crowd spotting the vultures. Cause they're there: scavenging and salvaging the remnants of the renaissance of our people-copycating a new original and not premiering it as a sequel. I wish black culture wasn't the new Underground Railroad. A locomotive carrying fruits for a village that hates who planted the tree.

These are our roots, and I desperately wish a part of you felt like it was a part of we. Color blind is defined as pigments not being able to be seen, but in America color blind ironically means the pigment is all they see. They see Serena as a sideshow

and Venus' Venus as a flytrap ,and I'm left wondering how in the hell do I forget that. I seldom see Selina nowadays, but I see plenty of Compton. Plenty of good kids in a mad city without a Kendrick to guide them through their problems. At  least Tupac would speak for us, but nowadays the Young Thugs in this generation feel like political matters aren't worthy to discuss.  Wishing to do something while doing

 

nothing just isn't enough. Even the iconic Oprah would say you can't win free. You must sacrifice something to become what you are destined to be. The drill music in Chicago is digging us a little deeper in the hole as the black men in America keep getting typecast into  roles. And as all the scenes end the same no is sure who to blame. Maybe it's the skittles, maybe it's the genius, maybe they're hunting for elephants and we should blame the big penis. Not the one our men are objectified to have, but the one that Lady Liberty loves to grab. The one that belongs to Uncle  Sam

,as we are pissed on, persecuted, and scrutinized ,over and over again. But as I get up in the morning I’ll pretend that this country has made its amends. The politicians will smile, Obama will give a speech, and commenters will contend that the days of wearing shackles as a black man in America have come to an end ,and I will pretend I'm proud to be one even though certain people feel I'm not supposed to be,  and as I look in the mirror and ask the same I receive no reply. Cause I'm not, and I am deeply sorry for it

day after day.

 

Ch 17:Tick Tock

I watch the clock swing back and forth. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. A mundane motion yet I am mesmerized. These are the days of our lives. I am assured your life has its own routine. Its monotony. That clock probably moves no faster. Tick tock tick tock tick tock. A man stares down at his watch waiting til it's time to go home.His son is waiting for him and his wife also. She's had a long tedious  day.

Clothes have been folded, unfolded, refolded. Her child has been agitated, pacified, and aroused. For her. repetition has been a learning experience in patience. Tick tock Tick Tick Tock Tick. She heaves a heavy sigh, hunching and relaxing her shoulders. Her son stares at the same clock. His gaze just as intense, but for him these our only seconds and his attention shifts. Tick....Tock.... Tick.A lady in a hospital bed tunes into the sound of her wristwatch. A gift from her late husband, but he's been gone for quite some time. Tick...Tock...Tick. The hands of this wristwatch were slow and stuttered. But nevertheless, it was precious to her. The heart monitor displayed a gradual set of hills and valleys. Her life held many of its own. Tick...Tock...that old wristwatch ticked slower than ever, but it still kept the time. She knew, however that the watch could not keep the time forever and neither could she. For her, the time moves slower, and all she can offer is a smile as the watch stops. I believe the time is the most precious to her

 

Ch 18: Writer’s Remorse

I think the hardest thing to accept is your dream not coming true, not because of you, maybe it’s how the stars are aligned or reality is designed, but whatever is the case, reality has assigned this as truth. I've written, til tendinitis, arthritis, has set into my hands, to the point where moving my fingers felt like manipulating sand. Yet still I am not the writer I need to be. I read until my eyes threatened to burst out and bleed, to the point my veins bulged, my visions blurred, and I could no longer see, and yet still, I am not the writer I need to be. I have bled ink to fill up numerous

pens, literature is tattooed upon my tounge, my soul, and in between the dermises of my skin. Yet I must reiterate again, I am not the writer I need to be. So I go back to work. I sit, fold my legs, concentrate, enter a meditative state, let my chakaras coordinate, and find the perfect center to which I can relate-to the human state of mind. I push pen to pad-harder than sprinters push of the blocks, my thoughts

racing faster than their hearts against the clock :to conceive, to achieve, to muster up and believe, in something that can make me the writer I need to be. Yet still, I've achieved nothing, the clock is still running, and it seems my lifeline can't outpace it anymore. However as I look upon my reflection, with further inspection, I can't let the mirror to my soul fall to the floor. So I pick up the pen, and though God may not have given me Shakespeare's touch. He gave my own to aspire to, and that's good enough. So I continue to write in the face of futility, I accept that I may never be T.S. Eliot, J.K. Rowling, Stephen King, you know, the writer I need to be, but if I can be a writer good enough for you ,that will be quite fine by me.

 

Ch 19; Nihilist Paradise

I feel so invisible, so insignificant, so inconsequential. The price tag of my life is a blurred line, and I promise you I don’t want to see the number. What else can I  say?

Nothing, not much, too little really. Human beings are so pathetic. That's a comforting thought, well at least sometimes it is, other times volume is the only thing of volume that has value in my life. Only music can take up this empty space in the vacuum of my heart, and make everything clean. Rap is so aggressive, but in all that aggression and proclamation of superiority ,there’s an insecurity I can relate  to.

Similar to the mascara of a clown ,the topics and themes are as much of a mockery as they are a vain boast of shallow and superficial conquest. It reminds me of my own sarcasm and sardonic wit. My vulnerability  has led to venomous verbatim

;barbs a bit barbaric, snark just a little to dark and subliminal darts aimed at the heart that often hit the mark. I find my fulfillment in failure, both in the failure of others and my own. I love to see people struggle in futility. Reality is quite the godsend, putting a vice grip on the vivid visualizations of visionaries. The ivop towers of their ideals crumbling down, Senseless babel. No matter the diction decided upon ,all that flowery language adds up to ,is an alphabet filled with letters that can't form words ,and a garden full of plastic roses ,lifeless, but perfect for decor. What value has humanity added to the universe? Other than the self satisfying subjugation of our neighboring species ,all our self consciousness has afforded us is egotism. Yes we are proud, but proud of what? Being the most self conscious species to breed, populate, and leech of Mother Earth to the greatest extent? Well here's my applause. I smile at the thought that the tragedies of disease, disaster, and apocalyptic forecast are a backwards applause of her own. At my happiest these thoughts trouble me, but for the most part ,I revel in them. A nihilist paradise and paradox, because it's only in a world where nothing matters- that I  do.

Because meaning becomes so much of a subjective ,the meaning in meaning itself becomes akin to the plastered pastels of preschoolers. If I could physically become physics I'd embody gravity, but gravity to the point of intensity that I not only drag everything to myself but form a black hole suctioning and suffocating all I engulf. Music is so free, so liberating, I find it funny how in a sense it's nothing but noise. However the repetition, the pattern, the rilter through which we process it ,is what liberates us and helps us find free. I suppose that’s what I love about music and the arts in general. It allows you to become a walking manuscript, a transcript, a bipedal instrument. I love it for the oxymoronic self-serving selflessness. It's through the arts where my fantasy rinds fulaiii›ient. I’d like to imagine Shakespeare founded a

bit of himself in Hamlet and his other heroes, and I felt he always drew a prevented pleasure from the deaths of his tragic protagonists. This is the way I feel about my life, my art, this is my soul's Phoenix. Magnifying and creating a magnetism for the mundane and microscopic until the view is so big it threatens to shatter the lens of your soul’s windows. I want my thoughts, my feelings, my self-loathing, and insecurity to balloon in your heart until it's ready to burst and when you finally feel the lysis of emotion about to occur, 1 want to pop it out of existence like hot air out of a balloon so it can all become a blur, and just like me ,all you have left is the flavor of a nostalgia you can't describe. Martin Luther King created an ivory tower of  his

 

Ch 20: Hiatus

Writer's block is a Great Wall built brick by brick by my lack of imagination/ it is a ninja in the knight assassinating my creativity with no knight to defend it/ but knight gives way to day and as the light of the moon is replaced by the sun I know a new adventure has begun/ I must stimulate the synapses thread these neurons together and weave a web so intricate and interesting nothing my mind conjures can cool the cognitive combustion/ This is more than a spark this is a photon with more energy than the sun to lead to photosynthesis/ This spark powers plants and what my mind blossoms is more beautiful than Eden can imagine/ Arrogance is an awkward assurance or at least insurance in case I crash and burn putting the pedal to the medal-because this is the Olympics-and I am a Gabby Douglas of a gymnast/ I am literally on my last leg and in this case I'm the Jesse Owens of this race/ so God pass the baton, wave a magic wand, give me a northern star to follow or wish

upon/Because heaven only knows the hell I'd suffer with my creative intuition  gone.

 

Ch 21: A Loner

A loner is not a loner by choice. A loner is not a loner due to their skin color, personality, or voice. A true loner is a wandering cloud set upon a path destined to never meet another like it and constantly wondering why. True loneliness is when you crave companionship like diabetics crave confectionary treats; like those on diuretics crave to not take the piss out of everyone they greet, but still manage to piss on and piss off everyone they meet.  True loneliness is an affliction of the  spirit

,most are scared to admit it ,but not I, I see it as a gift.. I know I am a leper among leopards-jaguar upon leopards-black sheep often left unattended by my Shepard. I am old and wise enough to know the miracle of friendship , yet no longer young and foolish enough to believe it gets better. Loneliness is an abyss, it is a bottomless pit, and  if

you ever reach the center of that black hole all the mysteries of the universe are said to exist- you'll find-yourself. Different time, different place, different dimension, different space ,but even across different galaxies it is still the same case. I am  alone.

And my heart has become ostrich sized as I've become ostracized-bigger it will never grow. So I stick my head down that similar hole I know-to be me. Because the world outside no longer exists for me to see. At least ,that's what I'm dumb enough to pretend.

 

Ch 22: Pride

The leaves lose their color in autumn/And as the pigmented plumage Is picked from the peacock it's pride is forgotten/ Not I ,of course, Horus’ own could not peek nor a higher pyramid could it seek/Ignorance is bliss, and when my third eye is amiss the mysticism births the belief that a belief worth belief does exist/ I am vain ,and  take it in vain ,because my pride is the pedestal I've glued myself to in the storm of  this

pain/ Don't ruffle these rainbow colored feather's, fettered ,are feathers ,I've molted completely/ Molted ,Molten, Emblazoned ,Emboldened because the silence of my silver tongue shows my heartbeat to be golden/ Silence is golden and it's time for my heart and its golden time lover to hold affairs undercover/ Sleep is the cousin of death and incest is intentional as I place myself at rest/ I don't want to rim out because to sleep ,and not dream ,is to reap ,but never sow ,and even a flying pig knows-impossibility isn't what it seams/sleep is the cousin of death and I hope my dream lands as I'm in dream land/ Because even Sega can't sponsor a sponsor or dream a cast that will allow me to sonic boom myself away/ Kirby couldn't suction the nightmares that take volume and make noise in the vacuum that is supposed  to

be my clean getaway/ See I started off Simple and Clean ,but my previous Sanctuary could not make the cut in becoming a scene/ So in order for that scene to be seen I had to master the key to my own heart ,n this land full of dreams/We seek to become one with the sky but life rocks us/ We are only nobodies if the  somebody

we are decides to deny us/ Pride is my secure shore sheltering me against the siege of sea serpents/ trying to deprive me of the heaven that Lucifer fell to hell to the earth with/The pitfall is that this season's seasoned sentiment really isn’t worth  it.

 

23: Fear of Death

So this is the end. The epilogue. The closing chapter. The conclusive ending to all the escapades and adventures. I was hoping we could go farther than this. Save the princess. Slay the dragon. Kiss the girl. Save the world. Or save somebody's world at least. I wonder if this trepidation is what Jesus felt at the last feast. As he looked in the eyes of his companions and loved ones, family and friends, knowing it all was coming to an end. I've carried this cross step by step and mile by mile. Hopefully heaven awaits at the end of this trial. Only God can judge me, but I wonder does God love me because my crown is made of thorns, my tears made of blood, and my faith has become forlorn. I tried so hard, but despite my efforts it seems the pipes have finally succumb to the pressure- and it's all leaking out. For better or for worse my life ,in my opinion ,is without a doubt a curse, but I hope for others, it was a gift - they’ll remember. It's almost September, school is starting back  and my friends are pursuing their dreams. I hope they continue to pursue them no matter how hard it seams-to sow it up. Love is precious ,the most precious thing to  possess  ,so tuck it away in the recesses of your soul ,and never let it go. Hold on to that feeling and be unyielding in your pursuit of happiness ,because the feeling is a phantom of your consciousness and you must catch and possess the spirit without hesitation. My lifeline is threaded and tethered to all of yours through the memories we share so as long as you care and I remain in your heart-even when my light goes dark-I'll still shine and be there. And I know you will too. Just know that I believe in you, and not you alone but you all together because a complete circle runs much better than one severed. This poem is nothing but a shooting star and shooting stars are stars that have burned out long ago, so make a wish, and know, that just like me, one day you'll

 

streak across the sky and glow, making others happy like you did for me when I was alive. I love you, and Goodbye. My Starring Child. My Heavensent  Friends.

 

Ch 24: Quasi’s Prayer

He woke in the am ,just having gone to sleep in the am/another day pretending he gives a damn/another clown mask ,another 24/he flashes his fake smile in the mirror while washing his hands/not a dope man but he goes down stairs to his gram/young Dr.Seuss she cooked him his green eggs and ham/he takes his pills and eats his food/his Grandma gives his rainy life her daily sunshine and tells him about what God wants him to do/he smiles and they have a short time to converse ,then he goes up, starts brushing his teeth ,and starts to rehearse/his sonnets of sorrow ,his verses ,his lines ,his poems of sadness ,and loss an Edgar Allen of his  rhymes/

As a tear escapes his eyes ,he smiles a smile filled with passion/he's chill ,he's relaxing ,plus he’s used to the acting/His Grandpa pats him on the back on the way to his room/Reminds him of Red Fox ,but more Bill Cosby as he tells of what dooms/a lack of education will in the future make him wish he'd participated in this period of preparation/So he goes to get ready without a moment’s hesitation/He throws on his maxes and his neutral colors/the grey and black compliment one another/Because this is a world where everybody wants a taste of the rainbow from each other ,so that means no one’s really checking for this brother/so he heads down the stairs ,hygiene taken care of ,hair nappy with no care/He cracks a joke to his Grandma ,flashes his fake smile, now he's prepared/to head to a place where nobody cares/he's only a prop to cure their loneliness, so even the nobodies

don't care/he walks into the school he follows the rules he tries to drop wisdom on the fools they still treat him like he’s uncool/They all hate his presence They all hate is essence ,it’s not a good thing that everybody can be precious/they look at his style and crack jokes, the cool kids offer him a smoke ,or the kids socially make him walk the plank since they’re in the same boat/By the end of the day him and people  are

oil and water in a glass/He would scream f**k the haters and their hoeish girlfriends but they might beat his a*s/unloved but intelligent might as well stay in class/As he has these thoughts one of the Selenas pass/she's a goddess ,her beauty places her on the moon ,this ugly duckling in this race of quacks won't be going there anytime soon/the girl he likes looks at him like a queer ,any attempt at conversation she ups and disappears/he reads a note it says wish you were never here/now he wishes the same as the girl did/he wishes he didn't exist/Is this his purpose to exist/to serve those who'll never acknowledge he exists?? As he gets in the back of the car on the way home this thought persists/somebody snatched the doorknob to life-the key is happiness/as he comes up the stairs ,Quasimodo is back at his bell tower to hide from judgment so unfair//he pulls a pistol from a hidden box, gets the bullets loaded,heads to the garage ,pours a trail of gasoline leading to himself ,as he takes in the emotion/check, there’s no one home.good.I can do this alone ,the thought runs through his mind, a match in the box he eventually finds, he throws it where the trail of gasoline begins, before the cremation begins, he pulls the trigger and seals his life with a suicidal sin/Hell can't be worse than this,his last thought is hell can't be worse than this/If only hate and pain is felt there,I'm sure to exist...here I never got to exist...the angel of death comes as the bullet tears through

,and his life is gone with a tragic black kiss/This is a story of a pinocchio ,a real boy he never got to be/Quasimodo in the mirror that was all he could see/they say

 

there's beauty in everyone...well where was his??No beauty there. Tell Quasimodo

,there's no beauty there.

 

Ch 25: Worst Enemy 

Amnesia is the harshest of affliction but poetry is potent a penicillin. And in this moment I administer the antidote admitting I am the villain. I have been the antagonist in this play called my life, but through the laughter and strife the greatest supporting characters have been the two of you. My guardian angels given human shape to guide me through the trials and tribulations, the hills and valleys, life leads me to. Always offering me a lantern when I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, reminding me that God soars above as the Holy Spirit until my last breath.

Lighting a path for me in life when I can see nothing ahead and reviving me with the will to live when I'd rather be dead. You turn the slits on my wrist into veins: pu1sating,throbbing with vitality, and you remind that waking up to reality-is worth it, because even there, my dreams could come true. Even when I felt I was beyond redemption I felt an exemption was made in the eyes of you guys, and that helped me keep my eye on the prize. There is no better trophy to me than the reward of you sharing your happiness in mine, and I wanted to prove I was golden each and every time. My heart pumps and I brake at each bad decision at the thought of you all in my life. My knees buckle and strain and I endure blood, sweat, tears, and pain. All so the harvest you all are promised is never washed away by the rain, life gives us, day after day, year after year. I'm willing to gain hypertension, restore faith in disbelieving suspension, and open black holes while tearing through dimensions to give you what you deserve while you're still here. And the thought that I can't or won't be able to brings me to tears. Grandpa you've been my first father, my fondest

friend, my greatest advisor, and a sage like presence to the end. You've kept vigil like a hawk, nestled me in your nest, and you have gone beyond the call of duty to give

 

me your best. I can think of no greater person than you. I love you and thank you for everything. You truly deserve a rest. Grandma ,you have been the very definition of a Mama's Bear. With a strong steady hand, nurturing ,yet still sturdy and always  there.

You are the ghostwriter to the pen. It is your phantom like presence that guides every letter, every word, and puts the finishing touches on every poem. You were the flame that lit the Torch for reading and writing that I have today. You were the one that fed my hunger, quenched my thirst, and quieted the demons that haunted my conscience. At the end of the day, I know you used to pray-I'd be everything you hope for- and I wish I could be more-but just know I'll love you forever I'll like you for always as long as I'm living my Mother you'll be. I Love you very much, you've done than more than enough. You're the Greatest.

 

Ch 26: Broken Pedestal

Damn!! Where did she go? I don't know. I really don't know. I let out a scream of anguish from the pits of hell below. Swear I heard an angel's echo. A cry for help. A cry to stay away? Hard to discern ,so to the Lord I pray. For what I don't know, nothing specific. It's not like it matters ,or he can make a difference. I still have my faith in God ,just got lost in bad religion. I saw her as a Goddess ,until she made a human decision. Idolatry honestly keeping me dishonest, the fall off a pedestal is perilous for a queen and a Goddess. And it doesn't take much. It doesn't take  much.

A slight too much blush ,or a just a smidget light on the photo touch. A single mistake on that mask of mascara ,she can never make up. Forever remembered

,forever I am bitter ,at the winter of my worship ,and not the junes and septembers. I crucified myself, all in your name, and there was neither heaven nor hell for me, so I made you take blame. Maybe I should be ashamed, maybe I shouldn't fan old flames, but really I wish for everything to be the same. But God!!God forgive me for this idolatry, wanting her as my religion, and you as the Savior I need. So with a heavy heart I bring this poem to a close. The folly I made ,when God gave me grace .and I tried to make a Goddess ,of a rose.

 

Ch 27: Perfection in a Portrait

Starting at Mr. Franklin in his paper portrait/ A portrait that captures a picture worth a thousand/ The mark he left on society was priceless/ Pensive about the portrait my life has turned out to be/ Trying to leave something in it cryptic and coded like Leonardo Da Vinci/ Some sneak subliminal as slippery as a frogs skin/ slither something satanic in a frame where Christ should exist/ Slide into our minds and slide rash on skin; sometimes the portraits portrayed as pathetic are better than them, but the bicker, banter, and blasphemy blurs the lens/ Thunder and lighting

are the elements that must exist, when perfecting a portrait that properly captures happiness/ Beauty is in the pupils of the beholder, the muse is subjective/ It's lighting trapped in a bottle to make the spectacle striking and special/ Thunder, shakes, vibrates, and adds rhythm to a heart acapella/ Disaster sometimes makes the portrait beautiful, bold, and brilliant/ A seizure to a Caesar that leaves kings shaken/ To capture perfection in a portrait is poetry- it takes patience/ The paintbrush is your gumption, your grief, your actions/ It's a spark in the soul, combustion, no chemical reaction/ Distributed by the divine, I can't show you how it’s done/When capturing perfection n a portrait, remember to have fun

 

Ch 28: Poetry

I wrote a piss poor poem. And trust when I say that poetry is my life. It is my very essence, it is the lungs to every breathe I breathe ,and were my heart to run out of blood then it is my hope that it would pump metaphor and similes. Poetry is my animus. My passion ,my drive, it is what animates this dead clay from the inside ,and makes this living person that you see. You see my world is quite gray ,but this poetry is the watercolor spilled from the ink bottle of my soul. It paints the picture into a brighter day. Some say poetry in motion ,but for me poetry is motion because could

I not capture the fluidity and lucidity as well as the intensity of life into words. Then I'd rather not speak, nor think, nor hear, for death has already arrived for me and conquered. You see poetry is what helps shackle this monster that lies within and were it not for poetry I do not know what I'd do with him. Even when eloquence eludes I wish to still exude sonnets stanzas and haikus. Oh my dear poetry, a world without you is truly a world without view. Because poetry is the looking glass that I see myself as well as the whole world through ,and it’s quite the mirror, quite the picture ,apicture I build word by word, piece by piece, with the very words and lines you now read. Now tell me, how do I look?

 

Ch 29: Object of Desire

We object to objectification, and slander slavery and sexualization/ never is man a means ,nor mechanism ,to manufacture happiness for another/ But speak for yourself as I denounce the denial of utility ,your sentimentality ,has led you to/ Man finds purpose in purpose, were there no God or glory that gave the sun its shine man would create them himself just to give himself something to toil under/ It is the curse of cognition and consciousness that we are too self-aware to just be/ We must bee something ,even if we're workers in a hive mind serving a queen we don't believe in/ Humility is like honey to the human soul and there is honey no sweeter than the satisfaction service serves the se1f/ Ironic that the pride a lion takes pride

in is no rock we could take pride in ourselves upon/ lazing ,lounging ,listless listening to others make musical moments to a soundtrack we're too scared to run upon/ We have our own steps to take in this dance routine called life/ We may not buy into it, but for a receipt we are all too willing to pay the price/ a man went on spring break vacation and his friend questioned him ”I thought you didn't care” He replied "I don't, I just want them to remember I was there"/ Life's bosom is too beautiful of a beach not to leave a footprint/ Everything we sense is too concrete not to leave an imprint/ And our intellect has increased too much to live-with no intent/ In tents, and Intense, were even the Indians where the purpose of life is concerned/ And respiration is like education because to live is to learn/ And we refer to almost everything as life from the Protozoa to the germ/ Because when push came to shove we grabbed the concept by the gloves and said that everything’s the matter, not because it doesn't but because it does/ so the minute I can't act like Will Smith, and pretend I'm in the pursuit of a happiness in which I can't contend-or act as a living legend for a society I can't mend/ I no longer want the light of life in my eye to bend, but I'd rather the angel of death descend/ Because sleep is the cousin of death and I hope we become more than friends if my life loses intention I intend and insist it ends/ Because I am a tool who acts a fool and utility is my only friend

 

Ch 30: You

I hate you. You truly disgust me. Never have I met a personification of fesces, a morally desolate, inept parasite, such as you. You sicken me, because like a tapeworm, you leech from my very core and really even more deep ,yet, you show no satisfaction. ,and you say you’re a friend ,and time and time again ,you try  to

make amends ,with words as empty as the toolbox of promises you make to fix these broken bridges. You say just one more time, just one more chance, just one more mistake; yet it's never the truth. Then you say:well I just need time, well I just need comfort, well I just need God, and the last part is the only thing that's true. Because every time I recite the date, reset the timer, rebandage the wound, and get ready to reinstall a new program, it's always you, who's never ready. That's why I hate you, every time I see you I want to shatter your very existence until the pieces of your empty reflection are scattered and swept away. I want to take the center of the circumference Dante made for the dead, separate your eyes, your arms, your heart, and your head ,and instead of one level of hell I want you to suffer on  several

instead. I despise you, but more than that I despise me, because I knew every step needed to succeed, and yet, I let you steer our direction... Because I loved you or at least I thought I did ,because you're flesh of my flesh and rib of my rib, but in the  end

,all I see is a devil. You lie, not out of love, and lust with nothing but lie, and with each parting when the situation gets too much, I shed a tear ,for the both us. Me, for trusting in you, and you ,for trusting in me :for my kindness was a cruelty. So impoverished  in soul, mind rot with decaying disease, with nothing left and left with

nothing to leave, I come with pins and needles ,barely holding my heart to my  sleeve

,and beg of you O’Lord to save him from me because the reflection of false beginnings and rebirth is something I can no longer stomach to see, and I would rather live life as a monkey, than to have made a monkey out of  me.

 

Ch 31:  Bad Samiratean 

I can't stand the people in my city while in a good mood/ So I'm sure it's good to be separated from them with that they're going through/The apathy and indifference has me guilt written ,as I become the words I pen, hoping myself can be forgiven/The lights went out ,but it sparked something worse/people no longer feel power from what’s in their purse/ Power outage has the pompous of their pride rock ,the vanity and haughtiness is something that needs to stop/ We all become equal as we all become deprived, so what makes you smile has to come from inside/ Tornadic winds causes disaster and the whole state is in disarray, so like a predator about to pounce ,everyone's focused on pray/ Some people leave, while some are forced to stay ,the victims are ones that have nights just as dark as the day ,life

lessens in Tuscolosa, but we can learn about unity/ Selflessness and supporting each other can bring beauty to a community/ You can see a person eye's and facebook is truly there, reading the emotions expressed ,and what's on their mind as you stare/ A person's hand is a stress ball, their empathy a relaxer, the addition of another person can make fear no factor/ Nothing is a greater relief than shared sorrow/

Why not let go today, instead of hold onto tomorrow/ If we bear each other's burden we become as a cloud: closer to the sun, drifting through strong and proud/ A natural disaster is spilt paint on the canvas that God gave us, now we can pull together and perform miracles with a paintbrush/ A blemish to God is never a mistake, it's an intentional imperfection he uses to make his artwork more special and great/ Smile, not because there's a lot less pain, but like laughter, it's infectious, and makes others do the same/ The worth of words are in works that make this complete, so go out and do a kind act to finish this poem for me/ Ration out the rainbows like shelter and food, like Joe Budden music goes along with the mood.

Who know? You might just hear your tune.

 

Ch 32: Can I?

Can I still write words broken as the wristwatch mankind calls time? Can I still pinch pennies from the depths of my mind and make silver dollars from dimes? Do I still have the ability to steal the thunder, seize the wonder of the world from Zeus, trap it in a bottle with a four page love letter and make it the truth. Can I still be the compass for the wind the cue for the lighting coming in, the eye where the other elements of the storm can drop in and blend. Can I still douse the flames of  a

Phoenix  and pet it as a mere bird. Then ignite what I extinguished with only a word. Can my words touch Midas and turn him into gold instead; I wrote a lyrical lullaby that lulled the sandman to bed. Can I take a grain out of my hourglass and turn into more. I believe God gave me the gift of gab to make virgins out of w****s. I've stared Scott Summers in the eyes and though his gaze was quite intense. I did not falter in my glance or surrender to suspense. 1 believe I can roll Sisyphus' rock over that forsaken hill. I believe I can eat of the lotus and still be able to know what’s real. I have practiced Merlin's magic, Excalibur is mine. If you thirst for truth in words then please have a sip of mine.

 

Ch 33: Damaged

These scars run deeper than you'll ever know. The wound has healed, the scab has been peeled, but the scar still runs much deeper-than you'll ever know. When you run your hand over the skin where that old wound used to be. The same event playing over and over again, over and over again, over and over again; is all that I see. I tremble ,I shake ,tremors boggle my mind as trepidation tickles my face -at the thought of his touch. The walls are closing in, my vision blurs as the room starts to spin, and my eyes are starting to lose the light of day. Who plucks plums so pure from the place they're planted, takes a bite, and then throws them away. Maybe I was not yet beautiful, maybe not yet ripe, or maybe I simply wasn't pure as he thought. But my scar still lingers, beauty marks the spot, and the stain on these crushed petals can never be worn off. Because I am damaged, and I need the whole world to know ,because maybe if I can accept it ,then I can let it go. Cause my innocence is the butterfly he promised would come back, but instead he crushed.

And this scar is proof enough...that I am damaged..beyond repair.

 

Ch 34: Suffering

I feel this sickness:this seizing shaking suffocation. I feel this elation:escalating elevating eviscerating.It cuts through me: like a knife sharp as daggers stared at by murder victims. I've had patience in this matrix ,but now I’m sure there's a glitch in the system. My heart beats and I can feel dysrhythmia in my biorhythm, I'm tired of speaking in codes:assorting ambiguous algorithms. While I suffer, a volunteer to this marionette like masochism ,until I lose my sense of self and it devolves into nothing but sadism. I love God, hate prison, but I feel he has me imprisoned. I can't get the job done like Job so similar tribulation is the wrong decision. You know best, but even as the nails dig me deep into this cross-I just don't see the point of  living.

Heaven's heavy and hell is light the bible surely told me right. I just want to be read my writes and it's best to read before you write cause otherwise you may not get it right. On the internet all day and ironically I'm losing sight. Hands folded ,clay unmolded ,hoping the artist of my design hears my plight. Can God raise me up on eagle's wings-I’m so low I feel like getting high. I am losing my spiritual ,don't mind losing the physical ,but if that means I'm losing my mental than I'd rather go  mental.

Because my mind alone is mine alone ,and God gave me great gold ,why can't he leave my mine alone? I suffer similar to suffrage ,and discover that to recover is not always to recover ,and it hurts less to lose her if you don't love her. And since life is a b***h ,and she’s so proved quite frequently ,though God gave her as a precious  gift,

to preserve my love for him, I must cut her off immediately.

 

Ch 35: How  I Write

I don't know if I write ,seeing as the poetry writes itself quite fine. Filling in the missing words and lines for a person who can't be defined. It starts of as a torrent:a stream of consciousness downloading into my neural hardrive. After that  occurs

,that's when sparks start to fly. A surge of creativity charges up my wit and with a flick of the wrist, the artistic process begins-again. A hurricane of emotions and self imposed notions soak into my heart and soul. So I grip the pen tighter ,and just let loose as I lose control. I honestly can't take credit for the art ,it's an involuntary mandatory ,invaluable ,process ,like the breath of my lungs and the beating of my heart. The pen takes me for a spin ,and by God's gracious mercy ,it happens over and over again. A compulsive reflex ,yet I do it without being rushed. It takes time to administer the medicine until the voices in my mind are hushed. Most see the Mona Lina and picture the artist with his paintbrush. However I know the truth, it  all

starts with a visitation in your imagination of your muse providing you with an inner truth, then putting a pen in your hand ,while instructing you on what to  do.

That's when, you write.

 

Ch 36: My Muse

My muse often leaves me bemused, baffled, bewildered, as well as confused. She's either cutting the lights on or blowing my fuse.Tugging at my heart strings,playing it with glee. Hitting all the wrong notes while going off key. Bu{ without my muse ,I don't know where I'd be. Probably desolate, desperate, and worst of all deprived ,of the fuel to my creative engine that gives me my drive. My muse is playful, akin to a sprite. She teases and taunts me on what I hate ,and knows what I like, but she is also the lantern that lights my soul and motivates me to write. My muse is the subject, predicate, and object of my affection. And as I lockdown on these sentences she's always facilitating correction. She's the light to my dark ,to my mourning she's the lark. She is always free to be ,but returns to the chamber of my heart. She can come as she wants ,and go if she pleases so. In a world full of yesmen she's the only one I need to know.

 

Ch 37: Panic

I’m looking. Looking at my reflection. Wondering how the man in the mirror got this way. Who are you? Why are so scared? In life there are few things you can be completely prepared-for. But I expected much more. Thoughts running through my head with the speed of a gazelle and the grace of  an elephant ,sounding a trumpet on every potential disaster that could occur this very second. Then my heart beats-no-palpates-feels like a wolverine is tearing loose from my chest at worst-or a rabbit thumping its foot in there at best. Then there's the respiratory distress. I start to clam up and I hate being selfish ,but I make another trip. Another trip to assuage and assure my fears and prove that nothing is wrong. Even though I know the lyrics I end up singing the song -and dancing to the tune of imagined trauma my mind is still too weak to break.

 

Ch 38: Remember

I wonder if I'll be remembered. If I'll be recalled. Will they dial my number in the phonebook of their memory? I wonder if tears will spring from their eyes when I die. I wonder when I leave do they hope for my return. Yearn for my presence, crave my essence, and find it precious. I wonder will their neurons and synapses surge, connect, and snap working in conjuncture to zap an image of me to their mind. I wonder if our hearts, our thoughts, our hopes, ours desires, the wishes we made on those star filled nights could stay intertwined, and meld together into one. I wonder if I’ll be remembered, and the warmth of that memory will adorn their face like the ember of the setting sun, and remind them that though one chapter has come to a close another has begun. I wonder if I'll be remembered ,or will my ties to them wither instead of bloom. Maybe it's only me who shares sympathy for the dark side of the moon. The side no one remembers is there. Maybe only in my mind is to remember to care. I wonder, will  I be remembered?

 

Ch 39: Waiting by the Window

I'm waiting by the window. Waiting by the window. Waiting by the window for you. And as the rain streaks down the window. I see through the pane clearly and I think some of the water has leaked through. Because my cheeks are a little wet. You’d probably have brought an umbrella being thoughtful as ever and after the rain we'd stare at the rainbow together. However dreams are like wishes ,and wishes are like lies-none of mine are coming true. I need inspiration-for my respiration ,and motivation to move past the hesitation ,of moving along without you. I must learn to stand on my own two. Bipedal ,as I buy petals for the flower that dies ,as well as the one that is born as I’m soaked in the sky's cries. Because I don't cry. Tears of sorrow are just sadness burrowed instead of borrowed and my chest is completely hollow.

That's why I heave and sigh at the thought of tomorrow. I am unbothered. The thought of the wilting flower I observe before my eyes does not make the faucet run dry. Because I do not cry. And as I kneel down to pray I feel like the thundershowers have been particularly strong today. Because I’ve been inside but there is a trail of tears migrating down from my eyes. And as I clench my hand. This fistful of sorrow feels heavier than it's ever been before. Perhaps, maybe just a little. I am sad.

 

Ch 40: Straight Outta What Happened?

This is an original. A classic. No need for subliminals- to be thrown your way. Greatness is as greatness does and it's self evident no further proclamation is needed. I am the undefeated of the east, the champion of the west, and even up north they know down south I do it best. A duplication is nothing but a subpar recreation that can't measure up. With what metric system and with what quantitative value could they measure us? We are the precursors :the ones that nurtured the legacy that has hatched in front of your eyes. And as you continue  to

bite into the omelette cooked and sautéed, made from our best laid, I can tell you are surprised. The gold you covet came from Midas' touch, however a little bit of Midas lies in all of us. You all are just a bit too reliant on your silver tongue. Bronze bars simply relying on the force of hard hitting similes and brutish metaphors ,until you've forced the crowd into the submission of giving you an encore. And bravo you've made the audience clap by adding a clap and their fingers still snap-but not to the poetry of your words anymore. The lyre has lost the lyric, the musicians have lost the music but somehow have kept the muse. In a genre where everyone claims winners I can only wonder what did the culture lose? Yes hip hop I am sending this letter-to you.

 

Ch 41: Vengeance

Vengeance is a venom that to the victim tastes vinegar like/ To the one victimizing, it tastes sweet and adds flavor, like sugar with spice/ The opposite of wine, it

worsens the more it becomes old/ it's a parasite that pervades, parades around, and takes control/ It's a scab to an emotional wound that some peel of and mold: into a dagger ,causing despair and desecration untold/ Vengeance is a comforter in the guise of your conscience, telling you lies and cynical nonsense/ Vengeance is an anchor to relationships, a sunken submarine ventured to/ A pedophile poisoning that inner child that represents the innocence in you/ He's justice promising to give you your just desserts, God sends Father Time for that, but most don't live to learn.

 

Ch 42: Marble Maiden

I apologize to the women I've scrutinized over the years/ I only threw a blanket over your figure to cover my tears/ I'm sorry for any time you were objectified, itemized, or accessorized in my mind/ You were downsized and dehumanized so I could feel better inside/ I apologize to all the virgins Marys I treated like a human sacrifice, all the virgins I treated like w****s, and all the w****s I should've treated like more/ You are mothers, you are leaders, you are givers of life/ You are  people

,whose private parts can't be placed with a price/ You are the muse of paintings and sculptures, you motivate me to write/ Your womb is a place of birth and a potential tomb/ Your body is a temple in which you always make room-for/ You are a person with thoughts, ideas, and passions like I, but I saw you as a canvas to paint mine on without reply/ I don't say sorry often, but for this, I apologize

 

Ch 43: Final Waltz

It seems like I'm constantly covered in caverns of circumstance covered in darkness. Always stepping forward hoping to encounter the ethreal light to help my find my way. Yet it seems no matter what step I take, I stumble. Always believing that being battered, bruised, berated, and beaten benefits me. However these assortments of alliterative accommodations never seem to pave proper paths. So like a bat in a cave, a vengeful ,vigilante ,akin to Bruce Wayne, I take the pain and embrace it. A

bad man ,bat man ,of sorts I rely on sound to reverberate, to echolocate, to string me along the harp’s melody of futile fate ,to the tune of a dance I will always hate. War.

Peace. Revolution. It's an endless waltz. First a savage rage, a volatile volcanic eruption of pain, violence, and devilish disdain becoming a mixture more potent than the breath of dragons previously slain- in this war for myself and for you to have a me ,that me ,can give to you. Then I'm at peace. Not a joyous emotion tender as an infant in it's a cradle, a fetus in its womb, a mummy in its tomb, nor is it of the serene stillness of a flower yet to bloom. This is a passionless pacifism, a mind numbing masochism, a resolute less resolve to a resolution that leaves nothing

solved. It is a benign tumor with the promise of malignant to come with a promise of instant recurrence of you being thrown into the currents of cruel conflict which you will most assuredly succumb too-Two stages of this dance have I covered and after part two of this syllable ridden romance I reserve the end of this waltz of weary withered words for you to give me your hand. For together we can start a

revolution, find a solution, assure absolution, constitute constitution, purify pollution, mend the misconstrued, correct the lens through which poor politics are permitted and poorly viewed, and dig into the archives and fossilized fragments of the old and find something new. So please take me hand and walk with me on this final waltz. Because the key to finding an end to this dance lies in your vault.

 

Ch 44:Re Am

I am empty, A mere vessel in comparison to my peers. It's through their narrative, eyes, and personal struggle that I find my first breath in this game called life/ If life were a game I'd be the heroic meme, the bland protagonist in a visual novel/ Things told from my point of view because the spectacles I see are a much greater sight than me/ I play therapist to some of my friends/ I indulge myself in the intricacies and intimacy of their life crisises/ I am a mobile doll lucid and fluid as the next/ I have nothing to cry about, but I shed tears for their sadness/ Happiness is nothing but a chemical reaction and carnal satisfaction/ I crave the carnage they go through to get it/ A recent friend of mine recently told me he felt lost, listless, directionless with no way to go/ Thrill become tremors, a borderline excitement filled my body/ Doesn't he see? This was an opportunity, a parting of the clouds, a rainbow with a silver lining along the trail left in the aftermath of the storm!? The ungrateful Ingrate!! Were I him..„ Then I calm myself, convulsions of the consciousness cease/ I manipulate my mask back in place/ A lackluster luchidor wrestling wrath back into the seams of the quilted soul it slipped through/A mask, but I’m neither, hero, nor villain, nor vigilante/ Just anti- whatever I need to be at the time/ You see ,I am a mask, a chameleon ,camaflouged ,conspiring ,and condescending/ My mimicry mocks memory and existence itself/ I am a hologram ,hollow and hole at the same time/ Dig deeper and you'll find yourself, and if not yourself, someone else, but not

me/ The sole reaper of this hollow creature are the living that keep me chained from the dead/ 12 years of slavery, I suppose and l love every minute until the casket is c1osed/ A friend removed my mask once, and found nothing but a face I've been to busy to build/ Imitation is flattery and as I ingest intimacy the flirtation is quite the thrill/ I am a headless horseman heralding the apocalypse of a world of my own- that never began/ However God grants escape and there's a portal out of this paradoxical plane and I go through it with g1ee/ As I enter you I exit me and these doll takes on the characteristics of another/"Why hello my brother".,

 

Ch 45: Ghost

I didn't want to do it„ , she made me do it....l'm a good man...,That b***h just wouldn’t leave me alone...She's crazy I swear..." You piece of s**t" Oh f**k!! Here she goes again. "You crazy woman!! Leave me Alone!!!" I say as she starts choking me "Let go!! Let me go!!!!" Her fingers have me in a vice grip, I can't breathe, I can feel suffocation settling in as air slips away. God!! She has a strong grip!! "Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha!!!!" I can hear her cackle ”You took everything!! Everything!! I left the church to make money for you!!! I gave my body for you!!Literally!! My Body!" I wrestled myself out of her grip and pushed her off of me. I can see her staring at me as I catch my breath.

Her gaze is fixed, frigid, fixated upon the object of enmity and animosity in her sights. Her hazel irises dance like fire in contrast to the black pearls of her pupil. No light reflects off of them. I've never seen a more soulless look in a person's eyes. "Look. Calm down. Let's talk about this. I’ve never taken any money from you. I've only met you that one time.” Her expression unchanged, she uttered no response to my plight. I crept backwards, gripping for life onto a handlebar I found laying in the room. She stood still, cold, and unmoving as the gargoyles perched outside of Notre Dame; her gaze as judging and fierce. "It doesn't matter," she says and out of the back pocket of her jeans she pulls a gun. "It doesn't matter who you are or what you did. This...ends..now..." Her voice is calm and even, her eyes eerie and more ember like than before. The wildfire in her eyes dance to a savage tune that only the silence of terror knows, and as the chaos in her eyes refuses to subside, the thundering trepidation in my heart bursts alive. I start crying. I'm a wreck now, a whimpering wretch whispering his final pleas. I am archaic architecture at the construction site spewing and sputtering it’s final pleas. Tears well up, but her expression remains unchanged. At that very moment, a savage fury fills up inside me!!! Does she not see my sorrow! Is she that much of an unfeeling fiendish creature that she can't accept my remorse! Her hand pulls the trigger, and as if we're in sync, I fling forward my arm, thrust the handlebar forward, and watch as she's thrown back into the mirror. Her body drops flat on it’s face, decorated in lacerations. The tattoos acting as her only epitaph. My mother rushes in,:out of breath, wide eyed, pupils constricted.

"What happened Julian??" She questions me. "Mother!!” I can hardly find the words ” This woman!! This.. this prostitute tried to kill me!!! I was so lonely...I. I slept with her!! And well... she needed the money!' I know she did!! Then I...then we.. then she..she went crazy!! Said I was her pimp!! That I stole money from her!! But I didn't, I swear I didn't!! You know I wouldn't! And she had a gun!! A gun!! And I'm just... I’m just...so sorry mom. I'm so sorry.” After I finished, my mother sat in silence for a whole minute. I figured she was letting things sink in, her gaze never shifted nor did she bat an eye at the dead girl lying on the floor. Finally, she looked me in my eyes, her mouth in a thin line. "So let me get this straight?” ”Alright" “This girl came in" " Yeah." "Tried to kill you?" " Yeah. " "Because she thought you were a pimp that cheated her out of money." "Yeah. She blinked one time, and paused, taking a deep breath, a grim expression adorned her face. "So, there are no cuts on her arms." I looked down and confirmed this to be true. “There are cuts on yours." "And there's no dead girl on this floor. I ran half-panicked and henpecked, hands to heaven to

find, the only person in this room, is you."

 

Ch 46: Happiness vs Hedonism

I wonder about happiness sometimes because I'm not exactly sure what it is/For me happiness is a guilt free God given contentment/A Eden shared with all my loved ones and devoid of resentment/But then again ,how do I balance out the altruism and hedonism/the conflict of personal pleasure and pleasing people is the subject of my lyricism/I mean giftwrapping globes is a noble desire to me/But giving  the

world when there's one Earth is an impossibility/I mean we all strive, struggle, search, and survive ,but isn't it all for a piece of happiness inside/I know that I sometimes chase and I can't help it, that the end is happy but the means are selfish/I don't want to shove the anchovies on someone else’s pizza at all/Is there really a way to live life with no hurt feelings involved/I mean I think about the effects that my actions cause/still some see me as the Grinch, some see me as Mr. Claus/I  see

the dilemma even extends to God/Where a Christian sees salvation ,an atheist sees a fraud ,and an antagonized agnostic is left with a question mark as his cross/I just wonder because supposed you planted a tree ,full of apples, but what the seed sprouts is something sour to my biology ,and oranges are my preference personally, but the rest of the populous tends to disagree ,so I’m left without the taste of my favored fruit ,unable to plant my own tree ,because it was in the interest of the nation ,not Abraham Lincoln ,that got the ancestors of Malcolm and Martin set free/So I just pose the question is my job to satisfy you, me, or we ,or is it all self served and it’s you for you ,and me for me ,but God says that’s not the way it should be/ so I pour out my soul bare and brail when it comes to poetry ,hoping the blind can feel from empathy and you all closely read because like Drake I just want you to take care and Thank me now ,not later before I’m so far gone that the lyrics are left lonely with no one left to remember to sing karaoke/So I hope these aren't just therapy for me but a apple on your sick day ,to help keep the sickness  and

downpour of  depression away/I hope my tears, my pain, my failure, my  fears

,become your medicine, your wine, your elixir, your beer ;because awareness is realizing you're not the only one that lives here

 

I am still reaching for the stars, caressing the clouds, and trying to remain strong and proud. However as hard as I try to keep up my guard, the crystal ball I stare at my dreams into has shattered into shards. Why, I don't know, and as I search for answers, the seed of doubt in my mind turns into a cancer. I am unsure of what I  can

do or what needs to be done but what I am sure of is I can no longer run. “Bang! Bang!” goes the gun, and the races begin. I'm not worried about the start, my concern is the end ;I am weary, but I crack a smile, as I come to the finish line of these thousand miles. Trials are challenges ,and through these challenges God judges our character ,and I hope mine is a bit more than a caricature --of the man he made me to be. The gavel swings heavy for some ,and lighter for others, but in heaven's courts even chameleons reveal their true colors ,but mine remains secret and I want to keep it that way long as I can, because if you were privy to the pigmentation of this man, you'd make a slingshot from the wood in your eye, gather a rock in your hand-then stone me to the brink of death. Where the reaper would find me and steal my last breath-with a kiss. Because nothing is sweeter....

 

I see poetry in motion, I see poetry in motion, I see Poetry in motion at the train station tonight. I see fireflies dancing and unicorns prancing in her eyes. I see metaphors and similes, sonnets and soliloquies line her thighs. I see wisdom in her wrinkles, allegories in her dimples ,that tell tales that stand the test of time. I see allusions to kings and queens and history's greatest scenes as I tickle her spine. And as I feel the edge and curve of every single word, tantalizing on the tip of my tongue, I want her be to mine. And even though her edges are rough, the sensation is enough to make me want to explore the interior design. And as I delve deeper inside, I grip tightly and focus on enjoying the ride. Because the prose she proposes makes me want to make her my pride. And they say to believe is to speak ,and to speak is to give reality worth, so I hope I speak her quality into existence ,so I can marry my word. And as alliteration is added and the ring is subtracted, I realize that ring is nothing but a distraction. Because it is nothing but these lines alone that are the main attraction. And I read them quite well.

 

47: Friends

Friendship is an ironic ionic term/it's not something you cross waters with someone on/it’s more of a bridging bond that fixes itself stern/it's a lantern of a lonely loner longing for a similar green/it's a lost looking glass that Google couldn't find/Friendship is powerful, fair weather friends are summertime surrogates surrounding seasonal/A friend usually cares when no one else has a reason to/A friend is only startled by the seasonal shift of self once self interest has made the friendship a titanic/a friend is not jealous of a butterfly emerging from his chrysalis catalyzed and changed/He is glad he was there to witness, wonder, and watch,/A friend is there not because the ride is a smooth one ,but because of who’s taking a trip/jealousy can be no iceberg to a true friendship/if the waters become too hazardous it can set sail on the rainbows of good will with its riders content/a friend is not one who's willing to laugh with you No! A friend is one who's willing to cry with you/A friend is no volunteer in the rumor mill he’s only willing to infiltrate to make sure you are not part of the product/A friendship is not anything that is simple to understand-to the rest of the world/it's a strange comfort, a blanket of companionship, a bond of brothers born of a different breed/friendship is not

logical nor is it totally emotional- it is a spiritual synthesis of both/the tongue of a friend always has truth tattooed upon it/No lies, dishonesty, no deception they are neither dream killers nor instigators of inceptions/they are simply there-a presence/A gift to simply have a person who doesn't judge you, a person, who gives advice that's contrary to consequence and reaps the repercussion/hills and valleys when it comes to true friends are occasions not odd occurrences/Two friends in the face of a tsunami-laugh/a true friend is the family found and founded/Caesar claims Brutus a friend yet betrayal is nothing a friend contemplates/It is love, a platonic one, not one of which Romeo and Juliet can relate but one of which if Tybalt and Romeo could two star-crossed lovers would not have met such a cruel tragic fate/I have known this ethereal experience, envied it's employers/That is why I must sincerely sign my soul's signature, a symbolic sayanora/A final farewell for fair weathers/For in myself subjected storm you've been absent, for in my isolationist immersion into an island beneath the ocean of my sorrow I've surveyed searched yet found scarce signs of a search/This is not a letter of hate, it’s just Axel should've given up on his faint grasp of twilight ,and I refuse to make the same mistake/ A friend is there for a friend in his time of need. Yet no friend can I find as I sit here and bleed.

 

 

48: Losing My Mind

It's 4am and I can feel myself slipping ,slipping away, losing my intellectual identity/My self aware essence, the neural manifestation marking me as a human being/ devoid of direction, distinction, deranged, and diving into darkness/ an abyss of amnesia and absentmindedness/ animalistic adrenaline and primal urge is starting to take over/ what's slipping is self awareness/ I think therefore I am, but without this recognition I'm little more than an animal/ An aerobic program acting on instinct, inhibitions inhibited/ When I hunger ,I devour when I anger ,alleviation is acquired aggressively/ is their anything poetic to be found in the primitive psychosis I've yet to suffer/ what sword could I yield to slay this dragon threatening my self conscious/ breathing fire upon this castle full of dreams I built brick by brick only to vanish like the hallucination of a specter in  the night/ ghost- I wonder  how

it feels to shake hands with the dearly departed only to have the phantom of the opera whisper the fat lady's performance is in honor of you? I wouldn't know or rather I won’t/The chain of memories that make up human memory is so fragile and easily broken/ I wonder how the pieces will scatter tonight/ 50 shades of grey have led to a sheltered woman's temptation/but those 50 shades are colors I need for this cynical creation/ Black is far to dark and white a bit to clear and revealing to match up with the suspicions in my heart/ For it's only secular self-conceit and super egotism that has allowed me to take a Freudian slip down this slope/ Do I find my self-evidence in the pupil of my third eye or has my intelligence schooled me in a train of thought that ends when I due/dew is the name of glittering moisture that remains after the rain and hopefully a sole drop of my true essence can do the  same

 

Ch 49: Magnus Opus

Magnus opus, Magna Carta, holy grail/ A hallmark left on history’s trails/The greatest piece, a sacred instrument, a holy object crafted by my own hand/ If you've never made one, then you'll never understand/ then again, neither have I/ My greatest regret is that I haven't sculpted it yet and I never will/ Though I have the wi11 ,my mind is running out of steam ,and my sleep is running out dreams/ insomnia strikes like a viper in the night/ however no matter what match I  strike

,my creative fire will not burst forth back to life/ Must I be Frank with nature and be struck by lighting to invent/ or have I lost the looking glass to my imagination, cursed to walk without the lens/ A rhetorical question, this optical oppression of my third has no cure/ However in this moment ,I've never felt a feeling more pure-than for my love of creation/ Every stroke of my pen is a celebration, a firework in my mind, and as the sky of my imagination shines, I cry. It will never be the greatest show on earth, but it is my show, and I perform it like no one has ever seen. My only regret is that history will never record the music of my greatest piece.

 

Ch 50: Moonlight

This emptiness endures. I can't escape it. It's a black hole, an infinite pitfall ,with no end in sight. I looked into the future ,only to see the same darkness that tucks me in at night. I look outside of the moonlit window to my right ,and see an owl. His piercing yellow gaze cuts straight into my soul, but he offers no wisdom. Just his silent judgment and a question I can't answer. Who? Who? He asks. I don't know, I've developed an awkward apathy towards identity. I don't desire individuality ,as much as I desire becoming someone. Someone significant, special, monumental ,my idle time is spent becoming such ,or at least figuring what kind I want to be. A famous heero of mine said life is cheap, especially mines. I'd pay the price to make up the difference. The owl is still there asking the same question. Honestly, I just ignore him. There is no sophistry in his sophistication, and only intrusiveness in his inquiry. I look at the moon and it reminds me of my own existence. Easily eclipsed, shrouded by the grey clouds, only parts of me seen at certain times, only able to shine because of the light I reflect. However the moon's eye within me has lost that light, and the clouds only get thicker and thicker as the time passes. It is no longer able to create a world suited to perfection built by my own design. The owl continues to question me a final time before he flies away. In this moment, a rare one indeed, I'd rather ask the questions than provide answers I've given up on finding long ago.

 

Ch 51: Massagenist

In medieval times when all kind of evil s**t was going on/ Mid-evil ,amidst evil, get it? There was a cliche journey every knight would journey upon/ That journey was to slay the dragon ,to save the princess-so she could pop that p***y/ What!? Don’t look at me like that dawg!? I ain't saving her for nothing/ She better cook, clean, pop that p***y or sumn/ Trust me behind every great man...is a great man who he probably stole that s**t from/ Yeah Sojourner was the truth, but a man  probably

told that lie to her anyway/ Harriet Tubman led the Underground Railroad ,but I bet a man was the conductor/speaking of electricity ,my n***a ,my main MAN Benjamin Frankling ,caught lighting in a bottle/ Only time a woman can catch lighting in a bottle is if she on the red carpet as a model/Bros before hoes is my advice/ Ceasar's a*s got seized cause Cleo captivated and become his vice/ Brutus? You mean brute force is what he should've used on her/ You’re detecting what!? Nancy Drew? Drew the wrong card out of this deck called life is what she did far as I can see/ Men have had Hardier times solving life's mysteries/ And if Lois didn't have Clark  she

wouldn't have coined nothing/In the end women discovering something is just fronting/ Y'all talking maxims ,but at the minimum women waging wage war is a waste of their waste/ They better get hip to something else/ Shakira ain't Shaking up nothing in society/ Beyonce?Who talking? What you mean I need sobriety?/Mary gave us Jesus, but God is a MAN!! How I know? Look I..uh...look...y'all just don't understand/ A madam tryna stroll on me gon need a walker/ Ain't nun of that going on over here!/ Women would be in an Amanda Bind before they get their own show/ The truth is these need hoes need a pimp ,need a daddy to help em grow, and I'm the father they should get to know/ Amber better get alert to that/I'm the boss like Ross/ You reap what you sow and Betsy ain't sowed the soil ,and that's something you need to know/ The credit goes to the maid man that made America, not the mothers that cleaned up after them/ Athena assisted Odysseus but who was the hero though?/ Y'all need to pay attention and listen/ And what the hell is that chicken doing out of the kitchen?!/No, not the bird, that's absurd/ I’m talking about her over there/ So when these women take flight and earn heart then I'll care/ Maybe if Joan had better arches on her eyebrow then story arc would've been written better/I'm privy to the Principle problem of these Hesters/ Adam let eve make him pick from the adult tree and he should've known better/ So I'm the massagenist soothing your temples of knowledge with the man's touch it needs/No Martha could find a better steward in Christ to take the lead/ Time is money and from the history I’ve given you I'm Oprah rich/Huh!? Who!?She's a woman!? Well ain't that a bi-

Ch 52: I Used To Believe

I used to be..motivated, inspired, aspire to the greatest heights. I used to...believe one day I would awake to the dreams I see at night. I used to..believe in a God that loved, guided, and cared for me. I still believe...but the moments I feel his presence are rare for me. I used to...believe kisses were magic and love was more than an emotion...I used to believe shooting stars were the key to your wishes becoming open...I used to believe happy endings were promised like rainbows after the rain...I used to believe there was a purpose in smiling through the pain...I used to believe faith could make the mustard seed and all plants in the garden grow... yet  you still must water them, that's something I've come to know. I used to believe in forevers and tomorrows that would come. I used to believe the moon had it's own glow, different from the sun. I used to believe in me more than anything else. Now I don't believe in a me that believes in myself. All I know is...I used to believe.

Ch 53: When Life Hurts

When life hurts I embrace the pain, I embrace the rain. My tears like droplets from the sky sliding down his shoulder. I laugh when life hurts. Self-medication is alleviation from this reality that has become a burden. Nothing is certain, but I never close the curtains. I continue staring through the pane, waiting for sunshine. Oh glorious sunshine, kissing my face, reminding happiness has a place, and melting the icicles in the cavern of my heart. When life hurts I accept the dark. I close my eyes, pretending it's the universe's start. As if God will speak creation into existence any second and things will begin anew. When life hurts,I take a bite of any kind of confectionery treat, just to remind myself no matter how sour the lemon or bitter the struggle, there's still something sweet. When life hurts I yawn, because I know sleep is the cousin of death and silence is golden. When life hurts, I look at you and remind myself that could be me. Because life is not predictable as it seems. So when life hurts I smile-because nothing lasts forever-pain included. So when life hurts, I smile...because happiness is coming soon. So when life hurts....I smile

54: Time

Time is inescapable. It is a vortex. It is a black hole drawing everything towards it, and crushing it slowly. It waits for no man, and though represented by grains of sand, it is us that are swept away and seemingly dissipate into thin air. Mother Nature is cruel, but at least she provides for what is born from her bosom. Father Time is much crueler-for he is indifferent, detached as he does his job. The hands of time do not sculpt and mold, they wear at the very figures Mother Nature birthed and makes them old. Pulling strings off of telomeres until it's time for the Fates to appear-then your lifeline is cut. I don't hate time, rather I have learned to tolerate it. It is a rigid unmerciful ruler. Never sparing seconds, honoring hours, or managing moments so I can get things done. Rather it sits there passive, passing me by without reply. Knowing that if I could walk a little further back on the trail I could erase every regret. Yet, it waits for no man, not even me, and only in the face eternity of does God sweep time off his shoulder. And though I love being human, as time colors me gray I wish I were anything but.

55: Numb

I feel so lost, lifeless, listless. I am still as a statue. Unmoving, unfeeling, unfazed in the moment. Sentimentality has become my opponent and I aim for the jugular. This is reality's peace for me. This numbness that I have finally succumb to. I have no plan, no train of thought, and my premonition is a blank notepad in my mind with no pen to write with. I dropped a pebble in the water, and ripples of that tiny stone have impacted the world more than I. I raise my screams of anguish to the sky, yet heaven has no answer for me, and the only comfort that brings me is that there may be no hell below me. I seek seraphims in my prayers and in my lucid dreams-all I do is chase the golden pavement God's miracles painted for me. However I do not awake to a golden road, I awake to a road made of thorns and stones. Did you not hear my soul cry? Y comes before the letter Z and that makes sense. My inquisitive mind must have all questions answered before I can close my optical lens. However I do not question anything because my mind has accepted reality and the tendrils of truth pull too hard to escape as I am enveloped in darkness and pulled into a nothingness I call fate. I let the numbness wash me completely away. Cause ironically paradoxically it's the only thing I feel. Nothing at all.

Ch 56: I Write

I write...to inspire others to pick up the pen. I write....to let my inner angel sing and quiet the demons within. I write....to give a trail for the blind to find themselves through. I write....so the lies in my mind can prove themselves true. I write....because the ink in my arteries form clots in my brain. I write..because these strokes are what form from my pain. I write....because life's lines are too short to define me. I write...because memory will not serve to remind me. I write...because poems are prayers and I talk to God through paper and pen. I write...because with literature I capture things better than with flashes and lens. I write.....because with the passions of my soul there's nothing else to do, but hold them to the fire and give this piece of paper a tattoo. I write......because I'm lost, and this is the only compass I have. That is why..I write.

Ch 57: Betrayl

I lost a friend today. It hurt in an expected kind of way. Oh Judas, Why did you kiss my cheek, only to twist the knife in the back after? Did God feel this way as Lucifer was cast from Heaven's grace? Forced to crawl on his belly for the rest of his days as a snake? Et tu?indeed. Et tu? indeed. It is never the one's you suspect to double-cross and leave you tied to the cross. However, the closer you get to the light the bigger your shadow becomes and you'll be surprised who hides there. Envy is not a color, but an ability, much like the homunculus, to shape shift into the form desired to deceive. Betrayal stems from jealousy and this brings out the worst in humanity and today it was clear for me to see. I felt the dagger pierce through my chest, each word crueler than the last meant to lower my self-esteem. I turn around to see your gaze not piercing into mines, but through, willing to tear me apart at any cost, nothing there but pure unadulterated rage. Of course, this only the imagery my mind receives as I hear your voice. There is truth in music, and your tone tells me everything. You would harp on the opportunity to pluck my strings one by one until there's nothing left but...death. Silence is a golden emotion, and as the phone rings that's all I can offer your silver tongue as a reply. Goodbye...Old Friend. Good Luck.

Ch 58: Seraph of the End

They hate me. They fear me. Viewing me as a bloodthirsty creature of the dark, but in this cruel twisted play called life I'm only playing my part. I do not wish to drain life and be the herald of death, but your poison is my perseverance and it's all I have left. I wonder how they see me as I seep my fangs into another victim. Blood draining from her face, spilling out, staining my cape as that last breath of desperation makes its escape. She slumps to the floor color lost, cold as frost, limp and lifeless, completely gone. I avoid self-reflection and that's quite fine with me because there is no stronger whirlpool of insanity-like isolation. This is what immortality has brought me and this misery is quite infectious. I'm a walking pathogen, a psychotic abomination, the worst of all God's creations with my sights set on you. Wine gets better over time and my bite will turn what's running through your veins similar to mine. I fear you will become a monster too. I'm sorry.

Ch 59:Last Hope

This is my last hope. My last wish as I observe the shooting stars fall out the sky as I close my eyes. What do I believe in? Just a bible with a loaded a pistol holding a single bullet  on top. Only one more chance to hit the target. What are you waiting for? Shoot. I mean. We might as well. Life is a moving train, and if you let it pass you by you'll never get another ride. I'm so scared to pull this trigger though. What if I miss. I mean what about the people that are the pieces of me. Their very life essence invested into my very being going to waste in this moment here. I'm so scared. Apprehension is not a cobra, it is a python and were its coils any tighter I'd have an aneurysm the doctor couldn't fix. But I must, so I battle and batter it away and take aim. After all, I'm only shooting at myself. What is there to lose? Sucide is self-improvement after all, don't you think?

Ch 60: Power of the Tongue

There are no accidents in conversation. Everything's direct even when it's not. Shots are being aimed at the heart, at the mind, at all times. It's a strange world we live in, where words are often misconstrued. No one wants to believe what anyone says is true-when it often is. I sat down with a woman yesterday and she she said loved me, and in a sense she does. The phantom of the man yet to arrive does blossom in my very core, but for now, that man is a spore. Truth is about perspective and nowadays everyone has their mirror angled the exact way they'd like it to be, and at the end of the discussion, though the light has bounced from person to person, it is the only thing never seen. Because conversation like reality, is what you make of it, and most don't say what they mean. Much like Aurora, they are lost in the seams of their dreams. See the tablet to exit the matrix is neither red nor blue. The true color of the placebo is all up to you. You must simply be.....and then speak it into existence.

Ch 61: Skins

We all wear different skins. We all wear different shades, different pigmentations, different colors. We all apply a different fabric, a different outer shell to repel our fears. We apply different armors to fight our wars, different bandages wrapped around our sores-our heroes wear different capes. I don't know what your outer shell means, but I respect it, as a shield, not as a weapon, in a world looking for its next victim. You can't leave yourself exposed, because what's beneath the beneath is only for you to see-and I know it's precious. My skin is elastic, my fabric is fantastic, you see I stretch myself to be whatever others need. It's what I need; it's the sustenance that sustains and is deeply ingrained in my soul. I play my role, and I don't complain about that script, cause only fate knows if that writer listens.....and she never whispers back. You can change skin, get a graft, but that comes with a price, because the longer that epidermal substance sticks like glue the more it becomes a piece of you, and it so painful to tear away. We can get so caught up in the cliches, identities, and the presentation we give to the world we lose what's inside. We save the oysters to throw away the pearls and after all that consumption, after you tear away the skin, there's nothing left within, but I'm telling you there is. Camouflage is very tricky my very friend, and the third eye is often more fooled than the other two. Sometimes it's not the flesh we have a problem seeing through. It's the soul, and mine has quite the clever disguise. Some say it's only in the moment of truth is only the moment you die. 

Ch 62: One in a Million

I'm not special. I am average, mediocre, whatever you want to call it. I am not one in a million, I am another in a million and that statistic makes me go ballistic. I hold a candlestick to the pages of history because it serves as nothing but a memory to me. A blank tombstone, an unwritten epitaph, I am a joke in mankind's timeline but I will have the last laugh. F**k it, no I won't. I'm just a casualty of causality and a victim of genetic predisposition. You see entropy orders the universe: it casts the roles, we dress up, we drop dead, we rehearse. This is harmony I suppose, but I can't stay composed with the content I compose. My thoughts are sporadic subatomic particles moving at the speed of light, and as my minuscule life flashes out of my sight- I'm blinded as a bat, trapped like a rat, and in this labyrinth of darkness I now hold the map- to the entire universe. They say it all started with a Big Bang, so perhaps it will end with one too, and from there I can start anew.

Ch 63: Cloudy Future

The future's...bleak. A hazy canvas with wasted watercolors I didn't get to use. It's a dungeon: dragons roaring to life, chasms swallowing me whole, only to spit me out, the taste of my failures too disgusting for even the pits of hell. The future's an aurora borealis waking me from this nightmare with a kiss, painting the night sky with her colors and wonder proving a God does exist. The future's an enigma, and there's beauty in mystery indeed.

Ch 64: Forgotten  Love

You used to call me: boo, bae, dear, terms of endearments sweeter than confectionary treats. You used to show concern, yearn for my attention, check to see if I'm doing fine. You used to give me a key: a special one to your heart only I could use. You used to tell me you love me and wait for me to say I love you too. But now, there are no calls, no replies, no letters written by your hand. The hellos between us are brief and the goodbyes are short, and time is something no longer worth -spending a penny on. Do you think of me on the cold winter nights and rainy days like I think of you? I wonder who's warming you up, or bringing you hot chocolate, helping you pull through. They say the snowflakes come in different shapes as they fall. I wonder if I was one, could you tell the difference at all?

 

Ch 65: Love is Like

Love is like this parasite yeah? It's like this leech, this beast, that feasts on whatever's inside you. Deprives you of joy, pulls you by the strings like a puppet or some sort of toy....then leaves you hanging. Love is like a noose, they say good for the gander good for the goose, but the golden egg I left you, and rotten egg you left me, prove that to be untrue. Love is supposed to be patient and kind, but love has left me a patient in line, my heart sick with grief, ready to pay you in kind. Love is like an umbrella, a lamppost in the dark to light the way and keep you tethered, but ironically, it's in my darkest moments you left me to the weather. Love is a four letter word that's inspired countless speeches, but in this moment, I am the one speechless. So I write you...a letter of love, because even though love is only a four letter word....it still hurts....too much,..to say. So I grab my pen, get a little pensive, and write my feelings away. This...is my letter of love, because the truth is, I can't hate you anymore. So I send this sayonara to my former paramour because I love you and you'll forever be the one that I adore. Cause that's the way love goes.

Ch 66: Haunted

This house is a miserable place. I too have fell victim to the sickness that plagues this place and stifles the air. The atmosphere is stilted and tense, no sense of happiness pervades the air around here. There are no reasons to smile. We live like animals. Educated animals, waiting to be slaughtered at a moment's notice. We pray to God, but with my faith slowly dwindling, these prayers are becoming nothing but a ritual. Primitive, repetitive action taken day after day, yet no amount seems to take the gravity of despair away. It's still there: weighing down on us, crushing us under its pressure, it's pull so cumbersome we can neither think, nor do any better-than to lay down and accept defeat. You see, this house is not a home, the quality, the vitality, that made it home, we’ve lost it. This is nothing but a well crafted hospice and as the hour hand moves we know we are sure to be gone soon. This...is a graveyard,,, that welcome mat, a epitaph, and as that doorbell rings I can hear the departed slaves of old sing "Free at last, Thank God almighty. We're free at last." For us, life is an obligation, we are shackled to it with no negotiation, and death, as dark of a stewardess as she may be, is our only liberation. So let freedom ring I say...let freedom ring...I hope it comes soon I pray...I hope-it comes soon 

Ch 67: Ode to Anime

Heart Gundamanium. I was born in that era where Goku was my Superman. Plenty Ghouls in Tokyo. Hollywood horror show. Lost youth. Animated Truth mixed with Cartioons and Cereal. Searching for One Piece. Ninjas don’t know. Snakes like Orichi creeping real low. Spider lily wishes. Sakura nightmares. Tune into Toonami like there’s no night here. Heroic spirit that never has to fight to fear. Courageous contagious powered by powerful bonds., I found through the fire Friendship is life’s magic wand. Our hopes and dreams the stars we can wish upon. Life lessons learned about what make us all strong. Serial experiments. Lost on the Internet. Feudal fairy tales I haven’t forgetting yet. Za Warrrrudddddooooo!! What the hell Do I Know?? Time stops as I hear a call from a bizarre world. Why fool myself chasing these magical girls? Always in some trouble. And  it’s always double. Think I would learn before blasting off , But still love em. Yeah I love em all. Always the type to jump to the call. Especially when I know that  just is the cause. Then I’m definitely  into it. Dedication infinite. One Strike. Two Strike. Three Strike. Four. Strike til I Strike out then I strike e more. Words hit hard like a shower of meteors. Fly like a Pegasus. Speak truth into reality as blessing manifest. Shonen til the death of  me shojou type life style. Take no note of death, but I know I still might die. Heaven Feels paved the road to hell with good intentions. Unlimited Blades to work with as my ammunition. When I talk everybody stops to listen. Zero to Hero until completed is the mission. Endless waltz the through the vault until I’m finished. And in the real world R.I.P. to all the KiKis killed in all the drive bys. So that’s why every chance I get you know I’m gonna try to fly high. Higher than I ever could. Higher than they thought I could  Thank God for all the bad and Thank God  all the good. Sunkist and anime chilling on a Saturday. Just a lil filler until the next arc of my story  where I know I’m gonna find my way. Life’s is just a story and I’m never scared to turn the page. Not scared to duel and meet my rivals at the center stage. Trump card? Trap card? In my heart it’s all the same. I believe in the me that believes in me. I’m only blind to what my third doesn’t see. Tricky as a fox. Rare as a unicorn. After middle school I was a way to cool for uniforms. My pen is my sword and that’s a samurai’s heart. So I refuse to kill and turn mines to the  dark. I hope to bring love. I hope to bring life. I hope to bring everything-except a goodbye. But if so, then it’s sayonara darling until the next time. I don’t mean to be Frank, but it’s an angel’s heart that  beats inside. My cruel thesis is of a nature divine and I hate to  say it but  I fear this is the end of the line. Kamikaze poetry, sunsets with shampoo. A little Code Geass. A little Samurai Shamploo. Bleach my brain while eating bowls of Ichigo. Hatching a plot how far next time we’ll go. It Hurts me soul. It’s Time to let go. Love you forever. This is Anime’s Ode. 

Ch 68: Apocalypse Symphony 

Exodus..this the Exodus..No god no devil as we look to the left of us. Horseman riding. Poseidon arising. Death on the tip of the horn of his trident. Butterflies and unicorns, gas masks and unicorns. All the worlds a stage they’re just hoping that you perform. World in need of angels I see devils in disguise. Winged fairies delivering a horrific surprise. Depression is a earthquake, can’t you hear the earth shake? Ba ra pum pum pum...there goes the drum. Sound of the trumpet. Death overcoming. Valley full of shadows that now walk among us. New World Order. Old World Scheme. Simulated seams sown into our dreams. A quilt for the mind. A shackle to the body. The all seeing eye watching afront and behind me. Blue pill illusions. Red pill rage. Sheep turn to wolves and devour in the cage. The burgeiose clap on as all the world’s a stage. Mlk turns into Mk Ultra. Just cause desire is desired doesn’t mean that it wants you. Gaia dressed in red, Osiris dressed in blue as people kill each other to find the world’s truth. Golden egg gander’s have gotten everyone’s goose. AAAAAAAAAhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!! This is my rage at it all!! The trumpet sounds again as the ivory tower falls!!Bombs dropped on babies, babies dropped on bombs. Psalms and revolution all in my palms. As we reach a resolution to revelations song. Dante’s inferno burns as Hera hums her hymn-as the devil twirls his cane, hate tilted to the brim. Right now we’re at his mercy and at God’s whim;it’s a tempest of souls in the rivers we swim. All I see is floods. All I see is fire. Lions lying with their crowns as they endorse the empire. Peacock rollouts, wizard and witches, A fire so hot that it burns into a blizzard. Girls turn to boys. Beast turns to man, as the pied piper plays a song no one understands. Hate vs love. Love vs hate. Peter’s book bookmarked as we are swallowed by the gate. Cataclysmic clash hydras and horseman are all  asunder as shifty serpents plot to put the whole world under. We all eat  the lotus of everyday attraction, ignoring, not knowing fatal fate is rigging us for a chance encounter. The night becomes day as day becomes night;the blood moon shines at the edge of twilight. Ashes to Atlantis and Diamonds to Dust as Heaven’s Harp and Hell’s Horn has sounded it’s enough. Rhyme gives to reason as reason gives to Rhymes. Gravity stops as does my clock -these are the end of times. The last piece of me given as I achieve peace of mind. What in this lifetime I’ve lost , in infinity I’ll find.93.

Ch 69: Last Check In 

Hey. How are you? No, really silly, how are you? I haven’t checked in so long. Anyways, don’t beat yourself up about where you went wrong. You tried your best. That’s really all you can ask for. To ask more is selfish. You know what? I really love that Linkin’ Park Song. “I tried so hard and got so far” it says. You’ve gotten so far man. Be proud. You know what the best part is? It doesn’t even matter. Well, it kinda does though. Or else Chester wouldn’t of killed himself(RI.P. legend, love you), but who cares? It doesn’t matter. The journey is in the footprints in the sand the ocean will wash away. The ocean washing them away doesn’t make the journey any less difficult. It also doesn’t make it any less meaningful either. For me, it makes me remember and treasure the journey even more. Indentation is nothing but us putting our stamp on the world. Time is but an ocean washing all away. It’s the great equalizer. So don’t worry babe. It’s going to be okay. Where all going to be washed away and cradled by the waves. I just hope when it’s my time, your time, all of our times, your hands hold mine, our fingers intertwine and we share a final kiss as love’s sweet lips drench our kiss turning water into wine as a moment so sublime is made in the mold of something so divine and as we both close our eyes and they open to the surprise and we come to find- all the time in the world was already yours. And will continue to be forever more-as we both live on.

Poets Prayer and Epilogue:

“Thank You! Thaannnnkkkkk You!” My Grandma lets out a resounding “Thank Youuuu!!!” nowadays. It isn’t until recently that I’ve figured out why. She can barely walk now and is hooked up to oxygen unable to walk or barely breath. Yet she rises from that walker with the strength of a champion. One time she fell. I was there and probably not taking proper care or maybe not being taking precaution like I should. She usually kept her wits and equilibrium about her as she mounted her walker. Calloused hands clasped tight as she sits herself upright and scuffles to the chair. Today was just one of those days. She’s usually brave in the face of danger, resolute and fearless in the face of defeat. That day- she was a little nervous. Her legs wobbled as she leaned on the walker trying to waddle her way through the short distance. I didn’t take it serious cause My Grandma and I joke around a lot. Dark Humor. Toilet Humor. Any kind as long as it ends in a laugh. “Laugh to keep from crying!” she says. “Laugh to keep from crying!” she says.  That day what occurred was no laughing matter. This time, she actually tilted over. “Help! Help!!” she screamed “I’m falling!! I’m falling!” “Don’t’ worry!!” I replied. “ I got you!!” I grabbed and tugged as hard as I could on her nightgown hoping to slow her fall, but it was all for naught. With a loud thud she fell as papers flew and the table where she keep her boardgames, purse, and glasses was knocked to the side. I panicked and uttered up expletives running up the stairs to alert my Grandpa as he called the neighbor. Panicked and nerve wrecked I called 911. I could hear my Grandma as he was stuck laid flat moaning and groaning in despair. I embellished the emergency as much as I could on the phone as 911 soon was there. The first responders took her away and I didn’t her form her until the next day. Sure that I had killed my Grandma, the only woman that to me had truly been a mother, I sat on the stairs for hours and cried. I don’t know that the forecast was, but it rained all that night. She was back by morning, A pleasant surprise, as our neighbor fixed her  Sunday dinner in the kitchen. I’m a bit of a dark cloud at times so she must’ve noticed my mood as she tried and failed to make pleasant conversation. “C’mon now son.” She said as she put her hands on her hip “It’s time to get over yourself.” “I know.” I replied. “No you don’t. You know, as soon as your Grandma calmed down and the medial staff mad sure you was fine guess the first thing she asked for?” “ Not to die?” “Well yes. But as she was thanking the Lord she  prayed for you. That you weren’t to hard on yourself and that he grant you peace of mind.” “Oh.” “Mhhhmmm. I fixed her plate. You need to take it to her when she gets ready.” Then she left. Later that evening I brought my Grandma  her plate , and though it was awkward at first, apologies, hugs, kisses, and laughter were once again shared. I was just about to fix my dinner and out of thin air all I could hear: “Thannnnkkk Yooouuuuu!!! Lord!! Thank You!!” There she goes again. Body broken down, hair  cornrowed , fist pumping , and  full of gray hair. “Thank You!” I couldn’t help but smile, and before I decided to partake of my meal and dig in I whispered the same to myself.  God, Thank You.

Author's Note

All criticism accepted.

Reviews

[maria ( rose)]

The Best Group To Get Reviews***********..led me here:)
I like your collection of thought.. It captures the mind and intuition.

keep up the Good Work!

[Yoh Hao]

Thank you. Needed to hear that.

[maria ( rose)]

You're welcome!!😊

[a.dreaming.poet]

Hey there! So I've read most of what you've written, and I have to ask...are these really meant to be poems? Because they seem more like blurbs to me...like short-short stories. Actually, some parts even seem to be rap lyrics! I'm confused because you've marked this as a collection of poems, when in reality, they are not.

I can't really judge much of it because I'm primarily a poet, but from what I've read, you have many spelling mistakes and punctuation errors. Some parts seem to be inconsistent and don't really fit well with each other. Some parts just don't make sense to me at all, but then again, maybe my way of thinking just doesn't match with yours.
Anyways, you have quite a bit of room to improve, and I'm looking forward to seeing you grow as a writer!

Dreamer

[Yoh Hao]

Thank you for the criticism. And yeah. I suppose a lot of it was written free verse and a few are short stories that rhyme. I gues it’s not really a collection of poems in the traditional sense. Just creative writings I thought I’d share really.