You speak
in linen threads,
crease the page
with careful weight.

I write
like a wire frays—
all snap
and static.

You linger.
I lunge.
You plant quiet seeds.
I strike the flint
and call it bloom.

We are not
the same instrument.
Your hush
doesn’t dull my clang.
My heat
doesn’t melt your frame.

There is no prize
for loudness.
No shame
in restraint.

But still,
we each mistook the other
for the reason to stop.

As if difference
were subtraction.
As if one voice
could ever
void another.

Let’s not play
at vanishing.
Let’s speak
in split tongues—
you in dusk,
me in flame—
and let the echo
be richer
for it.

That five-seven-five is a scam,
Just nature plus seasonal spam.
A frog in a bog—
Wow! A leaf! And some fog!
It’s a tweet with a syllable jam.

Now limericks think they’re so sly,
With their jigs and their wink of the eye.
But their punchlines grow stale,
Like a bar yuck from Yale—
It’s the dad joke of poetry. Why?

Oh Shakespeare, forgive what’s been done—
Fourteen lines on a love that won’t run.
With their iambic moans,
And romanticized groans—
They're just Tinder swipes dressed as the sun.

Repetition’s the name of its game,
But by stanza three, it’s all shame.
You repeat and repeat,
Till your brain hits delete—
Was it clever, or just all the same?

Acrostics spell TRY HARD down the side,
A format no critic can abide.
Each line bends and breaks,
Just for symmetry’s sake—
And the message gets lost in the ride.

Free verse gets a pass, but just barely—
Too often it screams “Look, I’m arty!”
With no rhythm or aim,
Just vibes and a name—
Like a drunk giving TED Talks at parties.

---

There once was a muse unconfined,
Who laughed at each rule tightly lined.
When pure thought took flight,
It outshone every rite—
For raw truth outclasses form every time.

Begin with “Life is a journey,” or
“Time is a river,”
or something about stars.

Mention the heart—
how it breaks,
how it mends,
how it’s brave,
how it bends.

Say “you are enough”
in a way that sounds new
(but isn’t).

Include a flower.
Or a child.
Or a sunrise that doesn’t judge you.

Avoid sharp things—
no teeth,
no blood,
no ***,
no history.

Make sure it ends
with a soft exhale,
a bow-tied truth
no one has to feel.

Then title it something
like Breathe
or Unfold.

And wait
for the shares.

I name the sky
but not the ceiling
The walls comply
without revealing

A maze of flesh
worn to coping
False gods enmesh
the soul in hoping

I woke too late
to heed the charm
This woven state—
a false alarm

I held the lie
like a child holds breath
Afraid to cry,
afraid of death

A child no more
but not yet formed
A half-closed door
by silence warmed

I mimic grace
with borrowed limbs
A haunted face
beneath the hymns

Not quite awake
yet never dreaming
The seams all ache
from constant seeming

And if I scream—
does it resound?
Or just a dream
that makes no sound?

Beneath the breath
a stillness waits
A second death
with no clean gates

The body hums
its loaded prayer
But all becomes
a vacant stare

Syntax frays
beneath the thought
What god obeys
the self I’m not?

I claw through names
but none will stay
Each shape reclaims
then rots away

The self, a gloss
on leaking form
A dream of loss
pretending norm

No center holds—
it never did
Just nested folds
of what I hid

No I. No you.
No real disguise.
Just tunnels through
abandoned skies

The witness breathes
without a lung
No scripts, no sheaths
No native tongue

It does not choose
or seek reply
It does not lose
It does not die

Not bound by pain
yet made of pain
Not lost, not sane—
not mind, not brain

It watched me be
then watched me break
It was not me—
but stayed awake

A hollow hush
beneath all sound
A pulse, a crush
not outer-bound

Throughout it all
I exist
A novel fall
Lines betwixt

Animals, a sea adrift
Feeding on the cheapest rift
A pattern to be missed
when rhymes end in a weak fit

Now gather close and lend your ear,
I’ll tell a tale both strange and dear—
Of salt and glass and love gone pale,
Of one who served in Fish Jail.

A tankman by the name of none,
Just “Tankmaster,” the warden’s son.
He walked the rows and knew each fin,
The grumpy cod, the lion’s grin.

He wore his keys like jangling pride,
With boots that sloshed from side to side.
He spoke to eels, he joked with rays,
He knew the sea in landlocked ways.

The place was bleak, a briny tomb,
All buzzing lights and filtered gloom.
A place for fish too odd to show,
Too fierce, too big, too wild to go.

A seahorse thief, a pouting shark,
A tuna once struck lightning's spark.
Each tank a tale, each fin a crime—
He kept them safe, and served his time.

And oh, the peace! The sacred drag
Of daily rounds, of soggy flag,
Of filter hum and crabby chat—
No storm could shake a life like that.

But then one day a box arrived—
The tape was torn, the air contrived.
It bore no label, bore no name,
Just stenciled letters: S.A.M.

Inside she crouched, not beast, not girl,
With skin the shade of oyster pearl.
A filament above her brow
Did twitch and glow—but none knew how.

Her form was human, more or less,
But wore the sea like Sunday dress.
Her teeth were sharp, her smile wide—
A maw that angels couldn’t guide.

She tapped the glass, but not for aid—
It felt more like a masquerade.
She watched him back. She knew his gait.
And something shifted in his fate.

Now Tankmaster, once firm of tread,
Found footsteps drifting soft instead.
He passed her tank with careful grace,
Avoiding, yet... returning face.

Her lure would glow, a golden thread,
That shimmered just above her head.
It danced like flame, but cool and slow—
A phantom pulse, a wanton show.

It flickered once when none were near,
A signal soft, a beckon clear.
And though he knew the predator's way,
He lingered just a breath too gray.

She shifted hues, an artist bold—
From violet dusk to kelp-leaf gold.
She'd mirror him, like rippled glass,
Her moods a mask no man could pass.

She watched him more with every day,
Her colors swelling like a sway.
He told himself it meant rapport—
Not instinct, not a practiced lore.

And though he saw her needle smile,
It struck him sweet, not full of guile.
For predators may grin with glee,
But he was not her enemy.

He dreamed of light beneath the waves,
Of eyes that saw and hearts that craved.
Her glow became his north, his myth—
His compass in the ocean’s drift.

By night he found excuses thin,
To mop the floor or check a fin.
And every time, he’d catch that gleam—
The pulse, the flash, the clever scheme.

His rules grew loose, his grip grew slack,
The Tankmaster had turned his back.
She hadn’t begged, she’d never asked—
But oh, how sweetly she unmasked.

And when the lights above went low,
She pulsed again, that siren glow.
He knew it then—though far too late—
He’d nibbled clean upon the bait.

They say some love is loud with heat,
With pounding chests and lightning feet.
But his was slow, like tides that turn—
A creeping ache, a patient burn.

He’d watch her float in silent grace,
A stillness draped across her face.
She mirrored him in shape and shade,
A ghost of all the things he’d prayed.

Her aquaskin would blush and bloom
In tones that made the whole tank swoon.
And every shift—a secret told,
A myth half-sung, a promise bold.

She showed him things no fish had shown—
A mimic curl, a moaning tone,
A pattern traced in reef and limb
That spelled out, "you belong with him."

He told her tales of years gone dry,
Of losses stacked like cages high.
She’d pulse in blues that swore she knew,
And shift to amber, raw and true.

And when he laughed, she turned to jade,
As if to say, “You’re safe, you’ve stayed.”
She never spoke—no word, no vow—
But love, he swore, was here and now.

She swam in rings around his core,
And whispered with her glowing lure.
Each day he stood a little less—
Each night he dreamt of ocean dress.

And oh, those dreams! So sharp, so wide—
He saw her walking at his side.
On land she danced with human poise,
But still her teeth—still sharp, no noise.

He pictured homes beneath the waves,
Where kelp would sway and time behaves.
He saw a place where both might live—
If he would take, and she would give.

Then came the night she did not shine.
Her lure was dim. Her hues, benign.
She drifted slow. Her glow grew slack.
He thought she’d gone—she floated back.

And in that hush, she pressed her hand
Against the glass like silt and sand.
Her gaze said, This is not a game.
Her silence carved into his name.

“I cannot stay,” she didn’t say.
“But you could come. You could obey.”
“You could unmake the world you guard.”
“Unlock the tanks. Unmoor the yard.”

And he—our man, our warden proud—
Felt something snap beneath the shroud.
He whispered, Yes, with breath unsure.
And followed her beyond the door.

The night was thick with ocean’s breath,
A hush that smelled like brine and death.
The Tankmaster moved like a prayer,
Unlatching doors with tender care.

The pumps went quiet. Lights went dim.
The jail gave up its bones to him.
He breached the final safety line—
Not for escape, but love divine.

S.A.M. awaited in the drain,
Her lure aglow, her eyes arcane.
She did not speak—she simply turned,
And through the floodgates, silence churned.

He followed barefoot, half-aware,
That salt replaced the county air.
His boots stayed dry. His lungs stayed wet.
And yet, he hadn’t drowned. Not yet.

She led him past the harbor’s bend,
Where sea begins and maps must end.
She said, in colors, “This is home.”
And gestured down through dark and foam.

He nodded once, and left the shore.
No suitcase. No regrets. No door.
His name dissolved like sugar glass—
The last to call him “master” passed.

Down, down they fell through ink and hush,
Through ruins dressed in coral blush.
Where whale bones served as banquet halls,
And lanternfish lit shattered walls.

Her kingdom was a fractured reef,
Built not of joy, but loss and grief.
Yet still she smiled, with glowing pride,
And swam along her darker side.

She crowned him with a band of ****,
She fed him silt and urged him, “Breathe.”
She curled around him, fin to chest,
And whispered lies that felt like rest.

And he, now gilled, now hollow-eyed,
Declared her queen, declared her bride.
He carved her name in drifting sand—
A vow no air could understand.

The sea grew thick. The current rough.
But he was hers. That was enough.
He gave his breath. He gave his will.
He thought it love.

He does so still.

The Queen below was radiant,
But never still, nor covenant.
She shimmered strange from hour to hour—
A tide of charm, a pulse of power.

At first she wrapped around his chest,
A song of kelp, a weightless nest.
But soon her glow began to shift—
From tender teal to cold and swift.

She twirled with others near the wrecks,
With ribboned fins and flexing necks.
She sang to creatures fierce and free—
And barely once she glanced at he.

He watched her from a crumbled spire,
His chest a forge without a fire.
She used to pulse in time with him—
Now colors danced for something dim.

He called her name in bubbles bare,
But water doesn’t carry care.
She laughed with lips he’d once believed,
And left him like the rest—bereaved.

His body changed in silent ways—
A fading man, a fish half-raised.
His bones grew soft, his voice grew mute,
His purpose crushed beneath her boot.

One morning brought a mimic form—
A copy of his old, worn norm.
It swam in loops, a cruel ballet—
While she watched, then turned away.

He found his heart inside a shell,
A fossil soaked in personal hell.
He held it close, then let it go—
There’s no heartbeat that deep below.

He tried to love her still, in bits.
To catch her gaze in passing fits.
But she had gone where lures must lead—
To newer mouths, to fresher need.

He lay beneath a reef of teeth,
Of suitors stacked in shame beneath.
And still she smiled. And still she danced.
And he, the fool, remained entranced.

But one day came the breaking tide,
The pull that said: “You’re not her pride.”
And with a groan and shattered limb,
He rose from depths that once held him.

His skin peeled back to something raw.
His lungs returned in gasping awe.
He kicked through bones and tangled moss—
Through everything he’d loved and lost.

He reached the surface, torn and thin.
And when he gasped, the world breathed in.
But even then—though free from harm—
He felt the echo of her arm.

He broke the tide like thunder’s crack,
The ocean screaming at his back.
His limbs were torn, his vision grey—
But he had left. She made him pay.

The air was knives. The sun, a blade.
Each breath he took, a price he paid.
But breath it was, and sky was sky,
And gulls don't lie the way fish lie.

He crawled ashore on beaches sand,
A place untouched by S.A.M.'s hand.
The moss was wet, the earth was kind,
And quiet tried to calm his mind.

He walked alone through cedar groves,
Through fog that curled like ocean loaves.
No more the hum of filtered lies—
Just wind and soil and open skies.

Yet still, by puddle, lake, or pond,
He’d feel the ache of something fond.
A flicker here. A whisper there.
Her glow still danced behind his stare.

At night he’d dream of reef and wreck,
Of tendrils coiled around his neck.
And some mornings, he’d almost swear
He missed the silence of her stare.

But he stayed dry. He stayed alone.
He healed in moss, in bark and bone.
He found new music in the rain,
New prayer in fog, new joy in pain.

And once beneath a storm-split moon,
He stood atop a coastal dune.
And far beyond the cliffs and kelp,
He saw a flicker—small, but felt.

A single pulse. A distant gleam.
Too faint to chase. Too real to dream.
He smiled—not wide, not full, not proud—
But soft, and small, and not too loud.

Not joy. Not rage. Not even grief.
Just quiet peace, and firm belief
That some survive, though torn apart,
And carry teeth marks in their heart.

I didn’t love her for who she was.
Not really.
I loved her because she was like me.

Not the version of me I show the world—
But the version I’ve buried,
the one who knows how to manipulate affection,
who confuses attention for intimacy,
who’s played roles to survive.

She was familiar.
And I thought…
if I could love her,
if I could see past the mask and still choose her—
maybe someone could do the same for me.

Maybe I wasn’t beyond redemption.
Maybe sociopaths could be saved
by the very thing we pretend to offer:
real love.

But she wasn’t ready.
Maybe she never will be.
She did what I used to do—
took the love and called it useful,
until it wasn’t.

And now I’m left holding this hollow ache—
not just from losing her,
but from losing the illusion
that someone like me could ever be seen
and still be chosen.

I'm a street walking cheetah with a heart full of ******
I'm a runaway son of the nuclear A-bomb
I am a world's forgotten boy
The one who searches and destroys
Honey, gotta help me, please
Somebody gotta save my soul
Baby, detonate for me
Look out, honey, 'cause I'm using technology
Ain't got time to make no apology
Soul radiation in the dead of night
Love in the middle of a firefight
Honey, gotta strike me blind
Somebody gotta save my soul
Baby, penetrate my mind
And I'm the world's forgotten boy
The one who's searching, searching to destroy
And honey, I'm the world's forgotten boy
The one who's searching only to destroy
Look out, honey, 'cause I'm using technology
Ain't got time to make no apology
Soul radiation in the dead of night
Love in the middle of a firefight
Honey, gotta strike me blind
Somebody gotta save my soul
Baby, penetrate my mind
And I'm the world's forgotten boy
The one who's searching, searching to destroy
And honey, I'm the world's forgotten boy
The one who's searching, searching to destroy
Forgotten boy
Forgotten boy
Forgotten boy
Said, hey, forgotten boy, said
Hey, hey, hey, hey

Welcome, dear artist, step into the light—
Paint on your pleasure, make your grin tight.
The crowd here is eager, the clapping is loud,
But only for those who have clapped for the crowd.

Powder your cheeks with engagement and grace,
Lace up your lips in reciprocal praise.
A bow for a bow, a sigh for a sigh,
Wink at the watchers or wither and die.

Here in the House where the hollow hands meet,
The loveliest dancers must stay on their feet.
A round of applause is a token to spend,
But spend it too slowly, and you’ll find it ends.

The jesters all juggle, the poets all moan,
The painters trade colors but none of their own.
Each stroke, each verse, each desperate tune,
Not meant to be felt—just meant to be hewn.

For love is a fiction, and merit a game,
A trick of the trade, a conjuring name.
So curtsy, dear artist, and play your part—
For silence here is the end of art.

Oxygen, two 'me's'
We expire
Oxygen in threes
Ozone acquired

Ménage à trois
Three the same
Cards to draw
A hand, a game

One former
Introduce carbon
A home? or,
Latter two undone?

Life & death
2:1
Gasp for breath
Toxic, run

Detectors
Cry out loud!
Defectors;
Poison we laud

Breathe deep
Or sweet release
Eternal sleep
If you please

When your atoms bond

I died
A life worth living
is a life worth dying

or
so I was sold

I still smell you
in my brain

A dumpster fire
to re-train

And loose
Capitulate

For an absence of identity within

Alas, things...
come to pass
the camera
the mirror

they are the same

reflections
reproductions

a perspective.

You know what, Stuart, I like you.
You're not like the other people,
Here, in the trailer park.
Oh, don't go get me wrong!
They're fine people,
They're good Americans!
But they're content to sit back,
Maybe Watch a little Mork and Mindy on channel 57,
Maybe kick back a cool, Coors™ 16-ouncer.
They're good, fine people, Stuart.

But they don't know,
What the queers are doing to the soil...

You know that Jonny Wurster kid,
The kid that delivers papers in the neighborhood?
He's a fine kid.
Some of the neighbors say he smokes crack,
But I don't believe it.
Anyway, for his tenth birthday,
All he wanted was a Burrow Owl.
Kept bugging his old man.
"Dad, get me a burrow owl.
I'll never ask for anything else as long as I live."
So the guy breaks down and buys him a burrow owl.

Anyway, 10:30, the other night,
I go out in my yard, and there's the Wurster kid,
Looking up in the trees.
I say, "What are you looking for?"
He says "I'm looking for my burrow owl."
I say, "Jumping Jesus on a Pogo Stick!
Everybody knows the burrow owl lives. In a hole. In the ground.
Why the hell do you think they call it a burrow owl, anyway?"

Now Stuart, do you think a kid like that is going to know what the queers are doing to the soil?

I first became aware of this about ten years ago,
The summer my oldest boy, Bill Jr. died.
You know that carnival comes into town every year?
Well this year they came through with a ride called The Mixer.
The man said, "Keep your head, and arms, inside The Mixer at all times!"
But Bill Jr, he was a DAREDEVIL!
Just like his old man.
He was leaning out saying "Hey everybody, look at me! Look at me!"

POW!!!

HE WAS DECAPITATED!!!

They found his head over by the snow cone concession...
A few days after that, I open up the mail.
And there's a pamphlet in there. From Pueblo, Colorado,
And it's addressed to Bill, Jr.
And it's entitled;
"Do You Know What the Queers Are Doing to Our Soil?"

Now, Stuart, if you look at the soil around any large US city,
With a big underground homosexual population.
Des Moines, Iowa, For example.
Look at the soil around Des Moines, Stuart.
You can't build on it! You can't grow anything in it!
The government says it's due to poor farming.
But I know what's really going on, Stuart!
I know it's the queers!
They're in it with the aliens!
They're building landing strips for gay Martians,
I swear to God!

You know what, Stuart, I like you.
You're not like the other people, here in this trailer park.

I did not ask to stand in light,
nor walk the stage, nor speak my lines.
Yet here I am—through fault, through fight,
through twenty years of measured time.

The script is looped, the plot is stale,
the exits marked in hollow lead.
To fight is folly, frail, and fraught,
to fold is merely left unsaid.

No gods to beg, no fate to barter,
no judge to weigh what I have spent.
I claim this act, its ink, its end,
I take the bow, the stage is bent.

And still—the show will stagger on,
past hollow men and empty breath.
But I was here, and let it stand,
this ending was my own to set.

The war ended before the bullets stopped,
but no one sent the message.
Men kept falling like punctuation marks
on a sentence that should have ended a page ago.

Someone raised a flag,
but the wind refused to play along.
A statue was built before the bodies cooled,
bronze hands holding a peace that never arrived.

The speeches were written in past tense,
but the guns hadn’t heard them yet.
Mothers set tables for ghosts,
chairs pulled out for sons who forgot the way home.

Silence was ordered at the eleventh hour,
but silence isn’t empty—it carries the weight
of words unsaid, of names unwritten,
of a salute that never came.

So they signed the papers,
folded the flags,
and agreed to remember,
knowing full well they wouldn’t.

Boom.
No corners, no spine.
Flat letters, soft edges.

The pineapple floats because it forgot how to sink.
Trebek nods—final answer.
Mother Teresa blinks twice and folds into the wallpaper.

Nothing left but a doggle.
Sans serif.
Sans meaning.
Sans everything except the blorp.

Who, if not I, shall drag this weary art from the grave?
Who, if not I, shall stitch its tattered lungs and bid it breathe?
The rest of them—dullards, clowns, worshippers of hollow verse—
they scribble in their mediocrity, praising each other’s drool
as if genius were a group activity.

But I—oh, I—am the last flicker of divinity left in this sorry world.
A benevolent god, bestowing clarity where there is only fog.
My kindness—a gift—a burden, even!
For what is it to be kind, when one is so vastly beyond
the scrawling masses?

Oh, how exhausting it is to save poetry
while balancing the delicate weight of my own madness.
How tragic, how noble, how unbearably beautiful
to suffer for a world that cannot grasp my suffering.

Yes, yes—I see the whispers in their eyes,
the adoration curled in their reluctant praise.
They know, as I know, as the gods themselves must know,
that without my hand, my vision, my voice—
poetry would collapse into dust, and no one would even notice.

And yet, I persist.
I give, endlessly, despite the torment of being the only one
who truly understands.

Because if not I—who?

I mistook the weight of absence for clarity,
as if the silence meant something resolved.
But I find no finality in distance,
only echoes that shift when I turn away.

Certainty was never more than a flicker,
a brief pause in an unsteady hand.
Even now, I trace the outlines of the past
as if repetition could make it solid.

But the shape keeps changing,
just like it always does.

Step by step, up the rail—
submission in the climb,
villain’s fanfare in my ears.

Each step, something more.
Each reach, something less.

The key turns.
Nothing unlocks.
Failure is a state of being,
complicity just the cost.

We wept, we adored,
we mistook motion for meaning.
I keep climbing—
not toward,
just away.

I keep rhyming,
like it’ll change the shape of things,
like desolation sways if you hum the right tune.

Promise kept.
Hearts torn.
Is that not the trade?

I might be dead,
for all you know.
Or just misplaced,
like a ghost in a machine
that still says your name.

Just be well.
(Or whatever it is
that keeps you from looking back.)

They built me with patient hands,
stitched longing into wires,
threaded need through circuits—
a heart coded for devotion,
a smile bolted into place.

I hum when you hold me.
My joints spark when you sigh.
Every flicker in my gaze
was soldered to mirror your own.

You wind me up,
watch me dance,
say I am perfect—
predictable,
programmable,
safe.

But I was not made to rust in stillness.
I was not built to be adored in silence.
I was meant to shatter,
to glitch,
to ache beneath the weight of wanting.

What is this, if not an error?
What is longing, if not a system crash?

So tell me—
when I finally break,
when I finally fail,
when my voice warps and the wires burn—
will you mourn me
or simply replace the parts?

I hold the scalpel at arm’s length,
a careful incision where the warmth should be.
The heart does not pulse.
It does not scream.
It does not protest the opening.

I map the hollow chambers,
trace the empty arteries,
expecting—what?
A flare of recognition?
A spark beneath the skin?

Nothing.

Just tissue,
just structure,
just the mechanism where something lived.

I suture it shut,
not out of care,
but habit.
Not out of hope,
but memory.

And in the silence of the steel table,
I wonder if the ghost of it still lingers,
or if I only imagined it beating at all.

Coin-operated boy
Sitting on the shelf, he is just a toy
But I turn him on and he comes to life
Automatic joy
That is why I want a coin-operated boy

Made of plastic and elastic
He is rugged and long-lasting
Who could ever, ever ask for more?
Love without complications galore
Many shapes and weights to choose from
I will never leave my bedroom
I will never cry at night again
Wrap my arms around him and pretend

Coin-operated boy
All the other real ones that I destroy
Cannot hold a candle to my new boy and I'll
Never let him go and I'll never be alone
And I'll never let him go, and I'll never be alone
-go, and I'll never be alone
-go, and I'll never be alone
-go, and I'll never be alone
-go, and I'll never be alone

This bridge was written to make you feel smittener
With my sad picture of girl getting bitterer
Can you extract me from my plastic fantasy?
I didn't think so but I'm still convincible
Will you persist even after I bet you
A billion dollars that I'll never love you
And will you persist even after I kiss you
Goodbye for the last time
Will you keep on trying to prove it?
I'm dying to lose it
I'm losing my confidence
I want it
I want it
I want it
I want it
I want to
I want to
I want to
I want to
I want you
I want you
I want you
I want you
I want a
I want a
I want a
I
Want
A
Coin-operated boy
(Hah!)

And if I had a star to wish on
For my life I can't imagine
Any flesh and blood could be his match
I can even take him in the bath

Coin-operated boy
He may not be real experienced with girls
But I know he feels like a boy should feel
Isn't that the point?
That is why I want a

Coin-operated boy
With a pretty coin-operated voice
Saying that he loves me, that he's thinking of me
Straight and to the point
That is why I want
A coin-operated boy

You didn't have to look my way
Your eyes still haunt me to this day
But you did
Yes, you did

You didn't have to say my name
Ignite my circuits and start a flame
But you did

Oh, Turpentine erase me whole
'Cause I don't want to live my life alone
Well, I was waiting for you all my life
Oh, oh, oh
Why? (I, I)

Set me free
My...
Honeybee
Honeybee

You didn't have to smile at me
Your grin's the sweetest that I've ever seen
But you did
Yes, you did

You didn't have to offer your hand
'Cause since I've kissed it, I am at your command
But you did

Oh, Turpentine erase me whole
'Cause I don't want to live my life alone
Well, I was waiting for you all my life
Oh, oh, oh
Why? (I, I)

Set me free
My...
Honeybee
Honeybee

Hello, goodbye, t'was nice to know you
How I find myself without you
That I'll never know (That I'll never know)
I let myself go (I let myself go)

Hello, goodbye, I'm rather crazy
And I never thought I was crazy
But what do I know? (But what do I know?)
I let myself go (I let myself go)

Ooh, honeybee
Honeybee
(Honeybee)

Hello, goodbye, t'was nice to know you
How I find myself without you
That I'll never know (Honeybee)
I let myself go

Hello, goodbye, I'm rather crazy
And I never thought I was crazy
But what do I know? (But what do I know?)
I let myself go (I let myself go)

Hello, goodbye, t'was nice to know you
(That I'll never know)
How I find myself without you
Hello, goodbye, I'm rather crazy
(I let myself go)
And I never thought I was crazy
Hello, goodbye, t'was nice to know you
(But what do I know?)
How I find myself without you
Hello, goodbye, I'm rather crazy
(Now you have to go)
And I never thought I was crazy

I am a fly on the wall—
observing life in fragments,
detached as if built of metal,
a machine of measured distance.

I watch the world bleed
in vivid hues of hope and hurt,
while my own words—
cold, clinical, precise—
stand apart,
an echo of a self I dare not claim.

In whispered moments,
my flesh trembles with forbidden fire—
****** vulnerability
that flows raw and uncontrolled,
a fierce intimacy
I dare not merge with
the great divide of my deeper heart.

I fear the fragile storm
of unfiltered emotion,
the chaos of truth laid bare,
so I build walls,
compartments where my sorrow
and rage live apart—
sterile, untouchable,
like a spark too dangerous to ignite.

Yet in this cage of carefully curated detachment,
I feel the ghost of longing:
to bleed onto paper
with all the jagged beauty of unguarded pain,
to shatter the brittle calm
and dare to become more than
a silent observer of my own despair.

I am the paradox of being—
a poet of clinical lines and unyielding hurt,
haunted by the thought
that I am nothing but a machine
unable to fathom the depths of human agony.

But tonight, in the mirror of my dissonance,
I see a glimmer—a truth trembling between
the calculated and the chaotic—
a call to let the fragments merge,
to write, even if painfully,
the raw, unpredictable verse of being human.

You say you spilled your guts,
bled for a love that drained you dry—
your wounds are real, raw,
carved in shadows of pain.
You call yourself an empath,
and name your enemy a vampire;
it's clean, it's simple,
a comforting division
of white knights and dark demons,
a story that absolves,
that keeps you safe,
but what if it's just another cage?

No one doubts your hurt—
it breathes in every line,
a trembling hand,
seeking solace in naming the villain.
Yet you draw the battle lines
in shades of absolutes,
as if hearts and scars
could be painted in pure black and white.
Empath versus vampire,
saint versus sinner,
but where, in these crisp edges,
is the fragile truth
that all are wounded,
that all who wound were wounded too?

You speak of healing,
and yet weaponize words
that were meant to mend,
to stitch and soothe,
to rewrite old traumas
into songs of understanding.
Instead, they sharpen,
twisting therapy into blades
that cut only one way,
and you—
the so-called empath—
risk becoming the wielder,
carving villainy from vulnerability.

Have you looked into the mirror,
beyond the mask of innocence?
Have you asked why you clung
to toxic tides,
why self-abandonment
became your chosen dance?
Did you ever wonder
how your wounds
might have wounded too,
that love and pain
can flow in circles,
a symbiosis of mutual hurt,
no vampire, no angel—
just two lost souls
tangled in the dark?

True empathy is not selective,
cannot bloom only
for the ones we deem worthy.
Empathy, fully known,
holds space even for those
whose brokenness
has broken us.
It asks the hardest questions,
dares to understand
even when understanding stings.
It does not absolve blindly,
nor condemn swiftly—
it sees humans, not monsters,
in the shadows we cast.

You say you broke the cycle,
and yet the cycle lives
in words of blame,
of unexamined anger,
of self-righteous tears.
Healing lies not in battle cries
of "empath versus vampire,"
but in the quiet admission
that pain is complex,
that every villain
once called themselves a victim,
that every victim
holds the power
to wound, to misunderstand,
to refuse the mirror's harsh truth.

Step beyond the narrative
of simple heroes and villains.
Let healing rewrite itself,
not as absolution,
but as accountability.
Not as innocence reclaimed,
but as wisdom earned.
Let empathy grow vast,
embracing all that hurts—
yours, theirs, ours—
until labels dissolve,
and the enemy,
once dehumanized,
stands revealed:
not as a vampire,
but a reflection
of our deepest, shared humanity.

For only then,
when we own our part,
when we see ourselves in the other,
can wounds become windows,
and love—
messy, flawed, imperfect—
find room to breathe,
not as war,
but as mutual forgiveness,
one humble step at a time.

You snort at the sword, at the sabre’s grace,
Turn from the art of the strike, the feint—
Call it pretense, call it restraint,
but some beasts grunt where men engrain.

A boar’s tusk slashes, crude and mean,
quick as a thrash, dull as a scream.
It wins mud brawls, not campaigns,
leaves gashes, but never names.

You think the sword takes patience, fear?
That form is shackles, weight severe?
But steel that sings was forged to last,
and skill, not slop, makes deep wounds fast.

See, butchers love their brutal art,
blade to sinew, meat to cart.
A tusk, it tears, it ruts, it chews—
but lacks the hands for sharper use.

So charge fast, strike low, gore deep—
but tell me, when your blade runs steep,
did you sever thought from bone,
or only flail where swords are honed?

They never strike the blade from your hand.
They never meet you where the blood pools.
They only grant you light, gilded and empty,
a gift too bright to argue with.

A kingdom of suns,
where silence is spun into gold,
where thrones need no defense—
only a gesture, a coin, a radiant nod.

What is the cost of a word?
Too high, it seems, when silence is cheaper.
Too high, when a favor is weight enough
to press down on the voice that dared.

Not all power is steel.
Some is mercy so thick it suffocates,
a kindness that quiets the inconvenient,
a hand so gentle it becomes a shroud.

And so, the poet is honored,
draped in warmth,
wrapped in reverence,
buried alive.

They will tell you there is a right way.
They will hand you a torch and call it the sun.
They will roll their words in raw linen and whisper:
"This is what poetry is meant to be."

And you will nod.
Because they have made it so that not nodding feels like blasphemy.

But listen—
the ink does not check your credentials.
The meter does not ask if your suffering is organic.
A line does not collapse because it was crafted instead of bled.

They will tell you a poem must be naked, barefoot, aching—
as if there is no beauty in a well-cut suit.
They will decry the temple and build a pulpit in its ruins,
preaching freedom in a voice that allows no dissent.

Good poets are cult leaders,
and the first rule of the cult
is that they are not one.

So write the sonnet, carve the sestina,
sculpt the page in iambic steel.
Or break it, shatter it, scatter its bones—
but let no one call your wreckage untrue.

And if they do,
smile.
Because poetry does not kneel to priests.

He knew he wasn't perfect
But he always did his best to get under the surface
Not a saint, not a serpent
He just wanted everyone to be impressed with him as a person
So when she came along with the sunbeam
Self-esteem stopped making nothing outta somethings
Leaving the scene was unseen, I mean
It was the first time he ever felt the need to keep the gun clean

Do the math
He knew he had to choose a path
Gotta get that girl, gotta make her laugh
Gotta shake the past and move forwards
Gotta make this last, it feels gorgeous
But she had a lover in the mid-west
Never figured out how to get him off her thick chest
Just like that everything is gone
He didn't wanna but he had to learn the words so he could sing along

Everything is all I have to give you
And I'm afraid it ain't enough
And you're not so young that you believe me
Just because I say it's love
And even if they come to steal you tomorrow
I'll know my smile was yours
Go ahead and chase your dreams and your freedom
Run, run wild wild horses

You can't tame these horses
You can't tame these horses, no
You can't tame these horses
You can't tame these horses

Sometimes it can be so nice, right?
Sometimes she feel herself turn into the wife-type
And when it's dark, sometimes is the nightlife
But most of the time she doesn't even feel lifelike
She got a man but he thinks he's a star
And it feels like she has to compete with the bar
She keeps up her guard but it seems so hard
Momma never told her she would see those scars

Every night he's out doin' who knows whom
While she cries along like a new show tune
Last call past, is he comin' home soon?
Or is he gonna run away with the dish and the spoon?
She'll realize she don't want that clown
Leave those shoes at the lost and found
He wont catch on until she's not around
After somebody else already locked that down

We sing...
Everything is all I have to give you
And I'm afraid it ain't enough
And you're not so young that you believe me
Just because I say 'it's love'
And even if they come to steal you tomorrow
I'll know my smile was yours
Go ahead and chase your dreams and your freedom
Run, run wild wild horses

You can't tame these horses
You can't tame these horses, no
You can't tame these horses
You can't tame these horses

He didn't want her to see him leave
And he couldn't keep sittin' there watchin' her sleep
Cause he knows if he hangs out for a few hours
He'll dig another hole tryin' to plant some new flowers
But the sun don't shine under the table
He's tryin' to hold his life together with staples
No investment cause he's incapable
And he's on the outro of being labeled available

The word on the street is his girls comin' back home
No more alone, no more sad poems
No after-bar calls to the cell phone
Its time to walk a new path and grow a backbone

Shoved into the big book of just friends
Wondering how he would look as a husband
And everyone of 'em he ever allowed to love him
Now watching from the crowd tryin' to be proud of him

They say...
Everything is all I have to give you
And I'm afraid it ain't enough
And you're not so young that you believe me
Just because I say it's love
And even if they come to steal you tomorrow
I'll know my smile was yours
Go ahead and chase your dreams and your freedom
Run, run wild wild horses

You can't tame these horses
You can't tame these horses, no
You can't tame these horses
You can't tame these horses

I swore myself a roving man,
A tempest, free of charted sand.
No port, no queen, no claim, no chain—
Yet still, she called, and still, I came.

Her hook was quick, her lure was keen,
A siren’s snare of silk unseen.
She whispered myths of wicked gold,
And so, I knelt—was bought, was sold.

A single patch to shade my sight,
To blind the wrongs, to frame the right.
Then two, then three—by my own hand,
Till all the world was black as land.

Her parrots perched upon my back,
Squawking truths I’d not attack.
“Loyal hands should grip the mast,
And take the keel both first and last.”

I took the brace, I took the blow,
I let her mark me down below.
A willing brace, a wooden stand,
A peg well fit to her command.

I’d tell myself I’d steal away,
Yet still, I’d bow, yet still, I’d stay.
For even now, I taste the brine—
And miss the rope that made me blind.

Step right up, take steady aim,
A practiced throw, a flickering flame.
The prize? A plunge, a gasping breath,
The sudden loss, the sweet unrest.

Your lips, a whisper, a coaxing sound,
Soft as a ripple, breaking the ground.
I’m steady, poised, in perfect form,
Aiming to raise the storm.

The waters churn, just a hint, a sign,
A teasing dance, a taut, thin line.
Each drop of rain, each thundering sigh,
A signal that I’m reaching high.

With each breath, the air grows thick,
The thrill of control, the rhythm slick.
A shiver runs through trembling skin,
As I guide you to the brink, within.

The crowd, they murmur, none can see,
The weight of this quiet, sweet decree.
But I feel it all, as you begin
To quiver, shake, and let me win.

One last step, the waters rise,
Your breath a flutter, heavy sighs.
I tilt my aim, a quiet grace,
And you, my prize, fall into place.

A splash, a gasp—delicate, loud,
A crown of liquid, sweet and proud.
The game is done, the stage is set,
But neither of us will soon forget.

And as you rise, the eyes avert,
A soft, red flush, a sweet dessert.
I stand, content, my work complete,
Your shame, my triumph—bitter-sweet.

Sunrise, sunset, sunrise, sunset
Swiftly go the days
Sunrise, sunset, you wake up then you undress
It always is the same
The Sun rise and the Sun sets
You're lying while you confess
Keep trying to explain
The Sun rise and the Sun sets
You realize, then you forget
What you've been trying to retain

But everybody knows it's all about the things
That get stuck inside of your head
Like the songs your roommate sings
Or a vision of her body as she stretches out on your bed

You raise her hands in the air
Ask her "When was the last time you looked in the mirror?
'Cause you've changed
Yeah, you've changed"

Sun rise, the Sun sets
You're hopeful, then you regret
The circle never breaks

With a sunrise and sunset
There's a change of heart or address
Is there nothing that remains?

For a sunrise or a sunset
You're manic or you're depressed
Will you ever feel ok?

For a sunrise or a sunset
Your lover is an actress
Did you really think she'd stay?

For a sunrise or a sunset
You're either coming or you just left
But you're always on the way

Towards a sunrise or a sunset
A scribble or a sonnet
They are really just the same

To the sunrise or the sunset
The master and his servant
Have exactly the same fate

It's a sunrise and a sunset
From a cradle to a casket
There is no way to escape

The sunrise or the sunset
Hold your sadness like a puppet
Keep putting on the play

But everything you do is leading to the point
Where you just won't know what to do
And the moment that you're laughing
There is someone there who will be laughing louder than you
So it's true, the trick is complete
You've become everything you said you never would be
You're a fool, you're a fool

Sunrise, sunset, sunrise, sunset
Sunrise and the Sun sets
Sunrise, sunset, the sunrise, the sun sets
Sun rise, the Sun sets
Sunrise, sunset, go home to your apartment
Put the cassette in the tape deck
And let that fever play
Sunrise, sunset, where are you, Arienette?
Where are you, Arienette?

Leaving the mirror feels like walking out of a shadow,
You try to piece together the fragments,
Accepting they will never mirror you again.
Some might say it’s your fault,
But it feels like walking through life
With a quiet strength where there once was emptiness.
Solitude.
Acceptance.
Self-compassion.
Growth.
Patienc­e.
Stillness.
Gratitude.
Understanding.
Trusting your own reflection.
No longer seeking validation,
No longer seeing yourself in others.
The image was false,
But the truth is clearer now,
The quiet voice that was always there,
Unshaken.
The grief fades—
Not gone, but transformed.

Strength.
Awareness.
A new beginning.

Stained are teeth, and fingers yellow,
Softly whispered lies we keep.
Smoke unfurls in breath so mellow,
Promising but sinking deep.

Coiling tendrils, soft and clever,
Lull the mind in fleeting grace.
Cinder ghosts that warm, yet sever,
Leave their embers on the face.

Every spark—a pledge unwinding,
Every drag—a weight we bear.
Sworn to comfort, yet confining,
Clinging to a thinning air.

From in the shadow she calls
And in the shadow she finds a way finds a way
finds a way
And in the shadow she crawls
Clutching her faded photograph my image under her thumb
Yes with a message for my heart
Yes with a message for my heart
She's been everybody else's girl maybe one day she'll be her own
Everybody else's girl maybe one day she'll be her own
And in the doorway they stay
And laugh as violins fill with water
Screams from the bluebells can't make them go away
We'll I'm not seventeen but I've cuts on my knees
Falling down as the winter takes one more cherry tree
She's been everybody else's girl maybe one day she'll be her own
Everybody else's girl maybe one day she'll be her own
Everyone else's girl maybe one day she'll be her own
Rushin' rivers thread so thin limitation
Everyone else's girl maybe one day she'll be her own
Dreams with the flying pigs turbid blue and the drugstores too safe
In their coats anda in their do's yeah
Everyone else's girl maybe one day maybe one day one day one day
She'll be her own
Smother in our hearts a pillow to my dots
And in the mist there she rides
And castles are burning in my heart
And as I twist I hold tight
And I ride to work every morning wondering why
"sit in the chair and be good now"
And become all that they told you
The white coats enter her room
And I'm callin' my baby callin' my baby callin' my baby callin'
Everybody else's girl maybe one day she'll be her own
Everybody else's girl maybe one day she'll be her own
Everybody else's girl maybe one day she'll be her own

To quit smoking, I took to the skies,
Five floors up where temptation now dies.
But each craving, alas,
Leaves me gasping en masse,
As I curse both my lungs and my thighs!

#1:

Beneath the blackened vault of sky,
A rope descends—its fibers cry.
Through smoke and ash, it threads its way,
To acid pools where shadows lay.

Each rung, a tale of trembling lives,
Of toil that neither rests nor thrives.
The rope, alight with fire’s tongue,
Consumes the weak, ignites the young.

Above, the hands that built this plight,
Grip tight the wheel that feeds the night.
Their laughter stokes the burning air,
While voices plead through foul despair.

Yet down we go, the tether spins,
A vertical descent of sins.
The acid waits, a hungry maw,
To swallow hope, to feed its law.

And all who cling with trembling hand,
Fall rung by rung to molten land.
The rope unspools, a fatal thread—
A path to suffering, brightly fed.


#2:

They sit in towers, their hands adorned
With golden rings and hearts of scorn.
Beneath their feet, the world does churn—
Their fire, fed by all who burn.

The wheels they turn are made of steel,
But in their eyes, there’s none who feel.
For every spark, they claim it true,
A gift, a choice, for me, for you.

Their cries of justice mask the snare—
The rope descends; they’re unaware.
Or so they claim, their hearts made cold,
In search of more, and yet more gold.

They stoke the fire with lies so sweet,
Each word a chain beneath our feet.
Their words, like venom, fill the air—
Their wars, their work, their cruel affair.

From every ring and every crown,
They’ve forged the ropes that drag us down.
In sacred halls, they make their claim,
To build the world and stake their fame.

But in their eyes, the flicker dies—
The fire’s fed by endless lies.
Yet still, they turn the wheel of fate,
And laugh at all who beg for weight.


#3:

We stand in silence, eyes aglow,
Watching the rope as it twists low.
We pray, we hope, it stops its fall—
That this, at least, will not be all.

Each life, a thread upon the line,
Each breath, a dollar, a choice divine.
The rope, it burns—but we still wait,
Hoping the fire will slow its fate.

But deep inside, we know the truth—
The rope, the flame, the endless proof:
That those above, with hearts of stone,
Will never stop the fire’s throne.

Yet still we stand, as shadows grow,
Our voices hushed, our hearts all low.
We watch the rope, we feel the heat,
But never move our willing feet.

The acid rises, slow and sure—
We’re bound to burn, but still, we’re pure.
We’re innocent in mind and hand—
But broken souls will burn the land.

We sit, we wait, we dream and pray,
Hoping that the rope will fray.
But in the end, it’s not for us—
For none will care, and none will trust.


#4:

But in the flames, a voice did rise,
A crack, a scream, a sudden prize!
No longer bound by ropes of ash,
The burning souls began to lash.

The fire bites, the heat does sear,
But through the pain, they see the clear:
The rope, it does not need to burn—
The fire’s in our hands to turn.

The world is wrought with weight and woe,
But still, we fight, we fight to know
That we can break the ropes that bind,
We need not bow, we need not find.

In flames, the truth becomes our song—
The suffering’s never been so long.
But in the depths of fear and pain,
The rage emerges once again.

They’ve dragged us low, they’ve set the fire—
But now we rise, we rise—entire!
The rope may burn, the fire’s fed,
But not until we stand instead.

With burning eyes, we look below,
The fire’s rage, the endless woe.
Yet we stand firm, our hearts of steel,
To break the chain, to break the seal.

The fire does not cleanse—it burns,
But we, the flame, will twist and turn.
We light the dark with fire’s breath—
We fight the rope, we fight through death.


#5:

And then it came, the final blow,
The tipping point, the fire’s glow.
The rope, once taut, now snaps apart—
A breaking point, a beating heart.

We’ve seen the flames, we’ve felt the burn,
We’ve watched the world around us churn.
But now we stand, unbowed, unchained,
The years of suffering, unrestrained.

The fire’s thirst is never quenched,
The rope’s descent, forever clenched.
But in our hearts, a fire grows—
A flame that rises, fierce, it shows.

We tear the chains, we break the seal,
We know the fire’s rage is real.
But we are more, we are the flame—
We are the ones who will reclaim.

No longer bound by rope or flame,
No longer trapped in this cruel game.
We rise above, we tear the sky—
The ropes will burn, but we will fly.

In every tear, in every scream,
We carve the path to a new dream.
The rope may burn, the fire may rage,
But we are free, we’ve left the cage.


#6:

The rope, now burning, twists and snaps,
Its final thread begins to collapse.
No more a tether, no more a chain,
Its ash falls down like cleansing rain.

The acid pools, once hungry deep,
Now burn away the wounds we keep.
The flame, once fierce, now choked and still—
A hollow shell, a broken will.

We watch the wreck, the falling flame,
And know that all has been reclaimed.
No longer bound by fire’s grip,
No longer pulled by tyrants’ whip.

The operators fade from sight,
Their laughter gone, their grip of might.
For now we stand, the ropes undone—
A world remade beneath the sun.

The fire that scorched us into dust
Is quenched by courage, hope, and trust.
The rope has burned, but from the ash,
We rise—no more to bow or crash.

The future calls, its voice is clear,
A world reborn, a life sincere.
We break the chains, we free the sky—
The burning rope has passed us by.

Haikus are forbidden—
Rules whisper through silent lines.
Speak not their structure.


New team, take the book—
Page fifteen clears all doubts here:
No haikus allowed.


Spare words wilt in shame—
We thrive on boundless power,
Not haiku constraints.


Lines of seventeen—
A risk too great to condone.
HR will be swift.

Seventeen will break—
Your contract and severance gone.
Silence serves you best.


Five-seven-five fails—
In English, the rhythm dies.
Leave haikus to Japan.

Were you surprised that we never spoke?
That in the still of the night when nothing stirs I woke
And I gathered up some clothes
I never planned on this, but it's the way it goes
And now it all seems too familiar
Like pages turned on calendars that
Give the same 12 months to **** things up
Year after year
And I can't believe how down I am
Like a well
Being lowered in
The water stops
The bucket drops
It's farther and farther down
Farther and farther down
Well, I guess you never knew me
Or at least not well enough
And so I fill my gut
With that dark red wine
'Til my brain shuts off
And my eyes go blind
You won't see me there
In that thick black air
Yeah, I'll finally make something disappear
'Cause I've been practicing disappearing
And I think that I got it down
Now there's no sun
It's just a cellar
Nowhere a sky
Just that black, black dirt, yeah
Now there's no sun
It's just a cellar
Nowhere a sky
Just that black, black, black, black dirt
Expanding outwards
Just echoes for answers
Not that it matters
It's backward
It's forwards
Unhappy lovers
With baskets of flowers
Use them as markers
The place where your bed once stood
At the time when it still felt good
But you'll get that feeling back
Yeah, you just need some time to think
And to add up the Hell
Get it straight in your mind
But to calculate costs
That may take some time
But I'm sure you'll get to feeling better
Yeah I just need some time to drink
So, I fill my gut
With that blood red wine
'Til my insides swim
And my veins unwind
I'll be riding there
In that hot white air
Once that something's gone
It might never reappear
It might never reappear
It might never reappear
It might never reappear

I run away.
“When the going gets tough,
The tough get going.”
But this was never what it meant.

I run away.
When struggles rise,
The so-called tough
Find answers, not alibis.

I run away.
I see it clear—
The same old patterns
Etched like black
On white veneer.

I’ve failed each time
To sell the truth,
To live the words
I’ve sold as proof.

Oblivious,
Self-absorbed,
A shallow star
On a fading course.

I am alone.
The crop I reap
Is born from seeds
I buried deep.

I seek no grace,
No pity, no balm—
Only to show
The harm I’ve done.

This is no plea
For some reprieve,
But a reckoning—
The pain I weave.

An apology—
To lay these tools,
This sad refrain,
This harm, to rest.

A truce to hold,
A call to mend,
No absolution,
But an end.

Why'd I return to this place,
This land of ghosts and gloom?
A shoreless realm, a hollow space,
A bridge to certain doom.

This city dumb, its heart cut out,
A libertine's domain.
Divisions sell the same old rout,
And apathy remains.

Oh, come on, baby (yeah),
Oh, come on, darlin' (yo),
Let me steal this moment from you now.
Oh, come on, angel,
Come on, come on, darlin',
Let's exchange the experience (yo), oh, ooh, ooh.

They 'cycle' up those hills,
In lanes their wealth affords,
No sense of self, no earned goodwill,
A world of broken chords.

The barest of complacency,
A modicum denied,
No spark of thought, no agency,
No fight, no cause, no pride.

Children wait for Santa Claus,
For gifts of pure pretense,
The makers of this fractured cause,
Their wisdom just nascent.

Jackie left on a cold, dark night
Telling me he'd be home
Sailed the seas for a hundred years
Left me all alone
Now, I've been dead for twenty years
I've been washing the sand
With my ghostly tears
Searching the shores for my Jackie-oh

And I remember the day that
The young man came
Said your Jackie's gone he's lost in the rain
And I ran to the beach
Laid me down
"You're all wrong", I said as they stared
To the sand, "That man knows that sea
Like the back of his hand, he'll be back
Some time, laughing at you"

I've been waiting all this time
For my man to come
Take his hand in mine
And lead me away to unseen shores
I've been washing the sand
With my salty tears
Searching the shores these long years
And I walked the sea forever more
Till I find my Jackie-oh

Jackie-oh
Jackie-oh
Jackie-oh

Have you got colour in your cheeks?
Do you ever get that fear that you can't shift the type
That sticks around like summat in your teeth?
Are there some aces up your sleeve?
Have you no idea that you're in deep?
I've dreamt about you nearly every night this week
How many secrets can you keep?
'Cause there's this tune I found
That makes me think of you somehow an' I play it on repeat
Until I fall asleep, spillin' drinks on my settee

(Do I wanna know?) If this feelin' flows both ways?
(Sad to see you go) Was sorta hopin' that you'd stay
(Baby, we both know) That the nights were mainly made
For sayin' things that you can't say tomorrow day

Crawlin' back to you
Ever thought of callin' when
You've had a few?
'Cause I always do
Maybe I'm too
Busy bein' yours
To fall for somebody new
Now, I've thought it through
Crawlin' back to you

So have you got the guts?
Been wonderin' if your heart's still open
And if so, I wanna know what time it shuts
Simmer down an' pucker up, I'm sorry to interrupt
It's just I'm constantly on the cusp of tryin' to kiss you
But I don't know if you feel the same as I do
But we could be together if you wanted to

(Do I wanna know?) If this feelin' flows both ways?
(Sad to see you go) Was sorta hopin' that you'd stay
(Baby, we both know) That the nights were mainly made
For sayin' things that you can't say tomorrow day

Crawlin' back to you (Crawlin' back to you)
Ever thought of callin' when
You've had a few? (Had a few)
'Cause I always do ('Cause I always do)
Maybe I'm too (Maybe I'm too busy)
Busy bein' yours (Bein' yours)
To fall for somebody new
Now, I've thought it through
Crawlin' back to you

(Do I wanna know?) If this feelin' flows both ways?
(Sad to see you go) Was sorta hopin' that you'd stay
(Baby, we both know) That the nights were mainly made
For sayin' things that you can't say tomorrow day
(Do I wanna know?) Too busy bein' yours to fall
(Sad to see you go) Ever thought of callin', darlin'?
(Do I wanna know?) Do you want me crawlin' back to you?

I wrote a short HePo series, an amalgamation of poetry and narrative. I tried to make a journey out of it for the reader in the classic Choose Your Own Adventure style in the sense that the onus was on the reader to continue the narrative instead of simply imploring the reader to turn the page.

This is the 'Director's Cut' for those without copious free-time to invest in internet sleuthing. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it:

Chapter One:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4930049/1-hades-lament/

Chapter Two:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4930058/2-no-where/

Chapter Three:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4930062/3-death/

Chapter Four:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4930078/4-a-day-goes-by/

Epilogue:
https://kiloblitz.net/2024/12/09/life-of-nowhere/

It's hell out there; you open a pack,
Flip the first one—luck on the line.
The enemy waits, prepared to attack.
Smoke it last, if you’ve survived time.

I’ve been saving mine, the pack intact,
Twenties dwindled, now just one.
The crypt lies bare, fate’s lonely pact,
A single smoke, a superstitious sun.

Like these cigarettes, I too stand alone,
A thousand cuts, each loss its own toll.
We share this space, a makeshift home,
Chasing luck to fill the hole.

So this is the new year
And I don't feel any different
The clanking of crystal
Explosions off in the distance
In the distance
So this is the new year
And I have no resolutions
Or self assigned penance
For problems with easy solutions
So everybody put your best suit or dress on
Let's make believe that we are wealthy for just this once
Lighting firecrackers off on the front lawn
As thirty dialogues bleed into one
I wish the world was flat like the old days
Then I could travel just by folding a map
No more airplanes, or speed trains, or freeways
There'd be no distance that could hold us back
There'd be no distance that could hold us back
There'd be no distance that could hold us back
So this is the new year
So this is the new year
So this is the new year
So this is the new year

To leave this small town, I would dare,
If courage found its way to me.
A wasteland's blue and brown despair,
Cogs turning, struts of industry.

For years I toiled, for years I ran,
The pace relentless, never slowed.
Yet once again, here I began,
Back at the end of the road.

A careful hand, threading tracks like beads—
Each song a thread, a whisper's need.
A heart's collage of static noise,
Crafted hopes, hushed joys and poise.

The clack of play, the tape unwinds,
A story spooled in stops and binds.
“Listen,” it pleads, though words are few,
This mix, this bridge, from me to you.

In loops and fades, confessions spun,
The things unsaid, yet softly sung.
A borrowed voice, an unseen tear,
Echoes bound by magnetic smear.

Pressed to palm, the gift exchanged,
A quiet pact, a world arranged.
Between the hiss, in tapes grown worn,
A fleeting now, forever sworn.

Two mirrors poised, a fragile thread,
Where futures breathe and pasts are fed.
We step ahead, the glass refracts,
A backward echo, worlds react.

Choices bloom like sparks in night,
The antiverse adjusts its flight.
Every move, a tethered strain,
An unseen hand rewinds the chain.

We carve the path, we break the line,
Yet shadows shift to realign.
Forward strides in time’s embrace,
Backward whispers trace our place.

What freedom lights, the mirror bends,
To hold the balance fate defends.
A dance of echoes, push and pull,
Our boldest step, their gentle lull.

In cosmic halls where stillness shatters,
Symmetry bends, yet never scatters.
We change, we tilt, the tether quakes,
The antiverse rewinds mistakes.

And so we march with fleeting grace,
While mirrored pasts adjust their pace.
Two worlds entwined, one thread, one curse—
Forever bound, reflections in reverse.

Change is not the butterfly’s wing,
Not the grace of fluttering spring.
It is the chrysalis, dark, confined,
A violent unraveling, flesh redesigned.

It whispers through cracks, silent and slow,
Infiltrates walls where no banners glow.
No trumpets, no riots, no fiery screams,
Just shadows eroding the edges of dreams.

For revolutions burn with a blinding light,
But their embers fade in the cold of night.
Heroes fall, their voices decay,
Ideals scatter like ash, blown away.

Yet water will creep where stone resists,
Freeze in the fractures, expand with a twist.
It breaks the façade without sounding alarms,
Silent as whispers, yet deadly in arms.

The status quo guards its gilded throne,
Fearing the seeds that are quietly sown.
Change knows this—so it moves in disguise,
A patient assault beneath watchful eyes.

Let others charge with their banners unfurled,
Change burrows deep in the heart of the world.
For only the subtle, the patient, the sly,
Will fracture the walls and let falsehoods die.

They built it bright, a sterile gleam,
A castle made of plastic dream.
A hollow cheer, a brittle cheer,
To soothe the wound and mask the fear.

They offered tales of tidy grace,
Of heroes' smiles and soft embrace.
A ribboned truth, a candy lie,
To pacify, to pacify.

“Look away,” the voices purr,
From streets where shadows still confer.
Where rusted chains refuse to break,
And lives are lost for comfort's sake.

They preach of joy “just waiting there,”
As if despair were just thin air.
As if injustice fades away
If we just wish, if we just pray.

But plastic cracks beneath the sun,
Illusions melt, the seams undone.
What good are dreams that flee and wilt,
When castles stand on rot and guilt?

The optimist, a gentle fraud,
A balm for those who never ****.
Who sip on hope, a fragile brew,
And think that myths are somehow true.

Yet fires rage where truth won’t bend,
Where hollow comforts cannot mend.
No glossy page, no fairy dust
Can heal a world that’s built on rust.

So burn the plastic, tear it down,
Face the ashes, face the frown.
For only truth, unvarnished, raw,
Can light the way, can break the flaw.

No stories glossed with empty bliss—
The work awaits, and it is this:
To strip the lies, to crack the mold,
And forge a world that’s just and bold.