On a lily pad, adrift in a vast, vast pond, none to it adjacent, I float to my fears, the deepwater lurks below me and into it I fall, not knowing how to swim through the world, I tread water, revealed am I on the underside of canoe, amongst the turtles and the much dwellers, one day I shall rise, or at least, I will float.

Hear not the truths that I hear, for they will betray you, feel not the essence I entail, for it will engage you, breath not the air that I am to breathe, it will accost you, drink not the tears that I imbibe, for they will enthrall you.

I am not many things, I am not the lion, though I may share its volume, I share not its prowl,
I am not the weasel, and while I share it’s backhanded ways I am not so clever as it,
I am not the tree, and while I have roots, I know mine hold not so strong.
I am not the robin, for the robin’s song is of joy, I but sing the dirge,
I am not mercury- and though I share its potency and its danger to be touched, I do not share the alluring sense of such a mysterious liquid, others do not flock to me
I am not a man, for mankind encompasses the great things that I do not.

Life ; the undersized funnel slide at the playground of spirit, its twist and turns require a strong push to pass through, the static electricity of our minds shock ourselves as we pass down it, I was the path seeming most entertaining in your youth, and now a realization of the false endowment of your youth.

Lifelessness cast over the frail face of a sickly god, the wrinkles in her aged pate scrown down to blacken features by the cast of the shadows of doubt, the sad pale face of a dead mother, alas; her children were not to be trapped under a toppled car; nay, their plight is that far greater than a mothers adrenaline can save, there is none whom shall pole bear for the children are all gone. Their new parent has approached, the darkness takes hold.

My salvation lays in that I fear most oft to do, the empty whispers that beckon me from all I’ve meant to do, my salvation lays within the corner that I hide, I spare myself of all those pains, to hide the feelings deep inside.

A Haiku!

I loathe my Future.
I live outside the present.
I Dwell on the past.

Reason has never been my forte Nor Knowledge my strong suit. Treason only can describe the lack of courage on my hoof.

Who needs a strong will? I am living proof.
Who needs a great mind? I am living proof,
Who needs a higher cause? I am living proof.
Little purpose in my words, they provide me with no proof.

I a born an apple to this orange of a world, it’s customs do they leave me, its values it has pushed on me, and I pushed from its sight, if one is to take an orange from the quota, inventory will take note, but I the apple from the orchard will not be missed in an orange count.

Truth is so abstract to one that knows not what even his own mind tells him, such ignorance is socially fatal and such a fool cannot construct the bonds to fellow man that are so necessary to his existence.

Life is an inescapable void to which all are thrown, no mercy does it hand out only potluck- I have drawn a number of astronomical proportions, it seems so many have drawn ones. Many fill the void these days, with feelings that they hold, to some a joy to fill the hate, to others path of hate, the lucky ones have filled with love, but I to misery.

Miracles are hard to find within my life of plague, and though there has been created fish; my misery outweighs them, and in the breath of foggy life has broken my hopes cold, with them they have given fears, with them I have shrunk from bold.

Hearts are either fickle of merely ignorant they make the foulest mistakes of love and pass them off onto whatever vise is available, seeking a person then shunning them aside with greatest prejudice.

With subtle breaths can anything cause farce unto its mind, no keepsake will it leave for you, it’s mind has been determined, and with life’s final exploits will it hurl you aside into a deeper melancholy.

There is no occurrence which can not be described, in some way positive and some way negative- the extremity however, varies to the Person.

Brutal striking is the truth when its breaks your mental barrier and destroys the gleeful dementia all wish they could follow.

On the map of the world where am I?
What markings bear my place? What is it that keeps me off mark, and binds me to this very pace?

A mourning to the angelic page that tricked me to this path, her wings no longer flutter and I am without her as I’m to pass. I lost her on the road so far, and did then I heard her scream. I mourn her, but she mourns for me; for those she fears have taken me.

Driven from my passions, driven from my home, carried off into the night by those I do not know, and while it is them I do blame, it is I who caused these wounds.

Warmth and cold are abstracts to hide what we do know, disguising those subtle fears to pass them as we hold, defeating severity- the trick a mind will play, the very purpose in our lives remains far locked away.