Awaken on Friday morning with green hair,
Looking every bit as mythical, out of the ordinary as your personality.

Do you remember telling me in my clouded memory that I was loved?

I don't blame you if you don't,
You were shapeshifting, you were busy.
You had more to worry about than my ramblings and poetry.

///Preamble.

Into the past where I find myself slipping,
Forgive me if you find that I'm trespassing.

I see hurt and heartbreak...
Want to bring you back through the vortex
Despite the physical barriers.

How many thousands of men could not break your enigma,
And how many sincere girls have shattered your heart beyond repair?

Oh, who could have blamed you for reading Nabokov in bed?
The marijuana haze was too prevalent,
You having gone years without joy but not a handful of minutes without self-deprecation,

I saw in the full frame of this seriousness,
I cut my hand on the picture frame,
And looked to the floor out of shame.

This is your story after all,
Is it fair if I exclude myself?

///Submersion.

Born under a black sun,
And drowning in the omnipresent light,

The Pantheon took note of the atmosphere,
Heightened with sadness.

But you're locked up, Melpomene,
I hardly know your name,
Your tragic songs...

What quiet, old voice has led me to write this?
The same morning my anxiety had reached its peak
And I had little reason to think you'd reached clarity,
I sat in the hallway of struggled composition,

Arrived at the reckoning that nothing should cause worry,
That questions either warrant answers, spite or silence.

All in between is dictated by sadness,
Dictated by you, then.

Please, step back from the ledge.

I had a wound,
It hurt a lot.
But it gave me,
Each poem I've got.

Then one day,
I taped it up.
My writing, now,
Was not enough.

The wound and I,
Ironically -
Had to work,
In harmony.

I pressed the wound,
For it to bleed.
The words flowed out,
For all to read.

Her body was battered. Any form of liquid within her circulation was stained red. It was pouring out from within her - profusely, incessantly. It overflowed out of wounds and inundated every crevice of her aching body.

She was dying.

The surface of her body was bruised. There were wounds that ran deeper than medicine could fix. Others were in the process of forming. She was weeping with a wail that could be heard loud and clear.

Her children sat watching idly.

One was ignorant, one in denial. One was oblivious. One was vigilant, observing silently.

Her dying body had spectators.

Slowly, parts of her started to lie still while others were in the process of following suit.

The continents came crashing down. The waves inside her wrecked the land she held. The jolts of her body sent earthquakes down the entire room.

Her children were disturbed for a while, but soon, they carried on with their routine. For them - it isn't over till it's over.

So she closed her eyes and let her body die. She gave up. She felt parts of her crash and burn. It was the end. It was time to go.

If you're lost,
Deep in thought,
And you can't find your way.
Give me your hand,
I'll help you stand,
Against every dismay.

If you can't find,
The peace of mind,
That you need to go on.
I'll share mine,
For, no mind,
Should ever be forlorn.

There is no cause,
There never was,
To go through life alone.
Together we'll go,
Hit the road,
To our way back home.

Like water held back
By reservoirs.
Like a reckless tsunami
Leaving no survivors.

Like ferocious winds
Engulfing small cities.
Like a broken mind
Trying to be less gritty.

Like a torn out page,
With a lot to say.
Like immense outrage,
Finding its way.

Like oceans with worlds
Hidden beneath.
Like a universe - vast
But also discreet.

Like pen to paper,
No holding back.
Like a mind unleashing
An open attack.

Words that are struggling,
Constantly fighting -
To see light of day,
Such is her writing.

A label is the weapon of Hate
Written swiftly to defend those worthy
And quicker still to condemn the unworthy

A label is to confine within a spectrum
To be anything but it to be exceptional
To be anything but it to be forgotten

When two men of evil intent strike
But one is white, he is called by his trades
But one is black, he is called by his crime

When two men of good save the day
But one is white, he is a hero
But one is black, he is gone with the wind

This narrative of Hate's design
Sets in place a story void of fact
But a story which becomes fruition

This sinister tale becomes a holy book
For which people stake and claim lives
A fairy tale with real and cruel consequences

These labels, while beautiful in diversity
Simultaneously enforce the war of US vs. THEM
Compliance in such a story, is Ignorance's Finest Hour

She kept tripping over her feet
because that was the thing to do
and everyone laughed
and she laughed with them
and no one else tripped
Or danced without music
But she was ok with that
For that was the year she was "bold"
As she decided it would be
And when she woke up groggy and sick
She thought, "this is living"
And gulped down whisky for breakfast
to dull the headache

She wore short skirts and lace bras
because that was the thing to do
and all the men stared
and she let them
and no one asked permission
Or questions of value
But she was ok with that
For that was the year she was "confident"
As she decided it would be
And when she woke up in another stranger's bed
She thought, "this is living"
And gulped down a plan B before breakfast
just to be sure

She cried herself to sleep every night
because that was the thing to do
and she didn't tell anyone
and no one ever asked
and no one ever questioned her sour moods
Or the shadows under her eyes
But she wasn't ok with that
For that was the year she became depressed
As she found out it would be
And while she laid in bed
She thought, "this is dying"
And she downed medication for breakfast
to make it disappear

"Do not judge them,"
She whispered softly,
"You may be old,
But you have yet to live as well."

And they stared at her,
For the first time in decades,
With eyes wide with wonder.
"But I have seen so many things,
I am certain I know more."

"No,"
Smiled the crone,
Orange eyes twinkling like starlight.
"You know what you know for yourself,
And yourself alone. Your wisdom is yours."

"Shouldn't I make my wisdom theirs as well?"
Cried the playwright.
"They're making too many mistakes, I have to fix it."

And still, the crone continued to smile.
"Their mistakes are theirs to make."
She reached out and placed a hand upon the playwrights' paper.
"Just as your wisdom is yours, their experiences are theirs, and just as valid as yours."
She took the quill from the playwright, and tucked the crow's feather in her hair.
"Allow them to grow without your bias."

"But I don't approve--"
The crone gave the playwright a bright smile,
Though her eyes were dark,
Which ultimately shut them up.

"Your place is not to judge. It is to nurture. It is to guide."
She said softly, though her tone was much more assertive.

"Then let me guide,"
The playwright began.

"There is a vast divide between guidance and control."
The vision of her shimmered, and she took a step back.

"I don't understand."
The playwright held their head in their hands, knuckles white while gripped onto curls.

"And you will not understand until you yourself live."
The old crone cooed, before her image blew away in soft red wind.

And there the playwright was left,
A half written letter filled with judgment and smudged ink,
And no quill to finish it with.
They fell back into their chair,
Glaring at their writing desk.

Whether or not the crone was right or wrong,
They still didn't get their quill back.

A free man, born as a king,
Lost in this jungle, with no idea of who he is

Spent all his years wondering, in search of a greater purpose.

Toiling everyday and night trying to find a way home.

He dint know he was to rule, an emperor being ruled by his subjects.
With no idea of his identity, starting to believe he is who they say he is.

Everyday he laments on the misfortune fate bestows in him,
Looking at the heavens crying out for change

All he had to do was search for the power within, the power he kept dormant and turned to naught.

Accepting this wretched date, he toils till he turns to soil.

He was a freeman, born as a King and died as a slave.

-wolf