An Endless Almost Nightmare

Another night, perhaps,
it might have ended differently
(if it had ended at all).
For now, the dream remains the same,
unfinished,
coming to a stop
at the threshold of nightmare
without ever quite crossing.

The ending of dreams
of any sort
is always to be desired.
Despair is not conducive to sleep
while under-bed monsters go hungry, unfed.

But no amount of force
behind closed eyes
will cause the lights to flicker.
Better the white or the black than uncertain Limbo.
The unfinished dream,
the toothless terror,
lukewarm,
satisfies no one.

The Anti-Cyborg

Flesh, bone, blood, and steel,
while the mind remains intact,
should not be combined.

Killing Headless Shadows

Walking shady paths,
my shadow's head is broken.
I hardly notice.

In the Monster's Honor

Alas! This vital spark!
Some wires in my brain got crossed.
It burns when I think.

Faery Dust and the Sandman's Sand

Dreams are other worlds.
If Faerie is where mortals sleep,
where then go the fey?

A Rose, Brushed White and Black

A picture of a rose,
brushed in black and white,
leaves so much unsaid.
A rose deserves its color,
lest the blossom,
stem, and thorn
all be confused
in this greyscale, film-noir
portrait.

The Obligatory Emo Poem

Fashionable tears
run mixed with black mascara.
It's the Next Big Trend!

The Poet's Reply

It's not an easy thing,
to take up again
the poet's task
after ignoring the call so long.

With every newly met beauty
or wonder that presented itself to the mind,
a promise was made to the pen,
but these promises were not kept
and now the Muses dress in neon orange and jump and wave their arms for attention.

So, chastised, with scars upon my back
and calluses upon my heart's eyes,
I heed thy plea, O pen
and let your ink flow
like blood from a fresh wound.

What a wondrous thing it is,
that scribbled lines on a page
can convey a thought,
and more than a thought,
an image.

So let us be reacquainted,
Mistress Inspiration,
though I have grown fat and slow this summer.
You're still as lovely as ever.

Look! The words still come,
as weak and in need
of His beauty to reinforce theirs
as ever.

The angel song still calls.
Pen in hand, I prepare for battle.

The Pen's Plea to the Lazy Poet

I'm actually surprised
My ink has not run dry
Yet. That's not a threat,
just a warning.

So long unused, here
left on the desk, or in the drawer
along with every book left unread.

What words are left unsaid!
What thoughts that should be placed
upon the page...
I think.
Do you?

Still think, I mean.

For what pain have I ever caused?
Or wrong I have ever done,
that I should be ignored?
Left to the side at the cost of every
flickering screen,
crooked neck,
sore wrist,
callused thumb,
sleepless night
that goes by without a poem.

Or is the wordhoard emptied?
Is there nothing left you have to say?
What would she think?
What would He think?

I long for the touch of your hand,
the work of your mind once more.
Will you pass me by again?
See how the blank paper cries.

Has your wit run dry?
I still have ink.