The winds, they cry;
The winds, they howl.
The trees, they die.
The trees, they’re foul.
Winter is here,
Shed yet another tear,
For it is November
In frigid Ohio.
Everyone seems to live their lives in such a hurry. I’ve been told I’m too slow, but I believe life’s worth too much to be exasperated about wanting everything to be fast.
Tell me your secrets;
I shall not say.
Stab me in the heart
Every single day.
Throw the dart,
For I am dead.
I have no feelings,
But fears instead.
Yell at me loud
Without reason or doubt.
I won’t say a word;
will not cry or pout.
I am a well
A well for disdain.
Deposit in me all your pain.
I am a well
A well of grief.
Deposit in me your stark disbelief.
I am a well
Most certainly hell.
Launch unto me all of your anger.
It will be buried and given no more.
Vanity. Pure vanity surrounds me.
I yearn for the company of those who have taste for knowledge and all things rich and genuine.
Where are those with whom one can share literature, good food and wine?
No, but all there is are those whom boast of their revelries and licentious lifestyle.
Where is the class in humanity? Is there truly no one genuine left?
Vanity… ’tis everywhere. It plagues everyone.
I am a troubled man,
a man of struggle and strife,
a man of social discomfort frequent,
a man of usual insecurities,
a man of weaknesses innate,
a man of common appearance,
a man of not outstanding charm,
a man of dark thoughts and passion, perhaps,
a man of uncertain future most definitely,
a man of no social status,
a man with no past,
a man without present,
a man imperfect,
a man no longer deserving to live,
Yes, I am all these;
yet, I am still a man.
The hate builds up against the walls of my heart;
The thought hits me like a dart.
I can feel the fury rushing through my veins,
And the stench of blood remains.
I can grasp it firmly in my hands
Perceiving the action it demands;
Yet, something seems to hold me back
—Is it the courage that I lack?
I sink my claws into his throat
—all sign of guilt remote—
As he gasps for his final breath
’til his certain coming death.
The tears pour out of his fearful eyes
With his desperate pleading cries.
I grin at the sight of my blood-drenched hands
—a satisfaction no one understands.
I looked back down so as his face to see,
And to my every horrid fright,
That man just happened to be me.