Once upon a torrid Nightmare,

where screams bellow a mute despair

The fondest parts of me parish,

'neath a revolting guise I'll never wear

Darkness excreting a fetid anesthetic,

noxious though it's pull defines kinetic

My every move forced, feels magnetic,

it's not real, behind my eyes, synthetic

Yet I gasp for a breath I can't catch,

guts coiled, on my knees I wretch

Skin drenched in my own sweat,

a need to run from all I can't forget

My legs forbade my only choice,

as I frantically search for my own voice

Reaching for you only to find a decoy,

and I still can't make a single noise

What tragedy leaves me so defiled,

in this odious void of caliginous bile

Bitterly unforgiving I'm torn, hostile,

fragile and confused as a small child

Running out of time I pray it's fake,

maybe that's the critical mistake

Everything I am becomes opaque...

Roses are red, Violets are blue.

Jack was a boy who had nothing to do.

Like all other children, he ran and he sprung.

He had small nimble legs and a sweet silver tongue.

And oh, how he hated being so young.

He was taught that the elders will always be right

To not fear the dark, yet obey the light

To listen, not say, or question its means

Just follow the rules and eat all his greens.

Jack was so playful, but he could not play.

He was trapped between four walls every single day.

He wished he could run, to fly like a bird,

To go to the stars that he so fondly heard.

But the grownups just told him his vision was blurred.

The tables had turned, he wanted control

To steer his own sailboat to where he wanted to go.

Time went on, and the light finally shone.

His wish had come true, he’s finally grown.

And all the time he feared the dark and the dusk,

When he’s only been living in its comforting husk.

Now he can smell reality’s harsh musk.

All work and no play made Jack oh, so dull.

He finally understood that age is null.

And as he grew up, his eyes saw the black.

No matter how old, he’ll always be at the back.

That was the turning point of poor, little Jack.

He never got to make it to the stars of his dreams.

He thought he’d have more freedom, all he got was more stress,

He used to want more choices, now he wants even less.

He’s now an adult. And he’s grown into a mess.

He’s forty years old. He’s tired and weak.

He lost his job now, his future too bleak.

He just wants some comfort, but nobody’s home

He’s still all alone in his well made of stone.

He checks the newspaper for a possible loan.

He stared at a picture, then off to deep space

He remembered exactly where he saw that face.

He looked upon his own hands with disgrace.

Life was much harder than he ever thought

But surviving so far, and all was for naught?

His world stopped spinning. Everything was still.

He stared at the rope. He’s had it restrung.

It was almost taunting him. It dauntingly hung.

Oh, how he wish he was still free.

And young.

He could now fly to the stars.

He kicked the stool from his feet.

Hoping his dear is still waiting to meet.

All colors will fade, and all things will soon age.

The young has its cons, but it’s still just a stage.

Enjoy life, young or old, it’s better than none.

The roses have wilted.

This poem is done