Anxiety

Second to last but never first
You try to run and you always fall
Stuffing into a coffin as you go
Strung up by your heels by your regrets
And your meaning of time is set in stone
Whisper of endless time lost long ago
Sailing among the stars like a bird lost at sea

I hope you've made the right decision
These choices don't come lightly
I can't choose to have these visions
Gripping the edge of your seat tightly

I'm digging through mistakes just to find some good
The right I've done is at the bottom
Because I ain't done much good in the world
But I've left my mark and I've said my piece
You've left me no reason and no doubt
That I'm lost in the jungle of greed and hate
So here I go again calling your name...

So I hope you've made the right decision
I'm telling you these choices, they don't come lightly
I can't choose to have these visions
I see you gripping the edge so tightly

I am the darkness in your mind
I am the panic in you head
I am dragging you down and laughing the whole time
I am your depression invading your sanity
You're losing your mind and I'm laughing about it

Do you feel that itch?  It's me screwing with your mind
Do you hear that voice?  It's me whispering evil in your ear
Do you want to cut yourself and make yourself bleed?  I'll hand you the knife
Do you have the urge to end your life?  Guess what, that's me as I laugh the whole time

And I'm laughing the whole time too, because this has to be a joke...
This can't be real...this is not real...I am not real...

When You're Being Held Back

A little bit goes a long way
Just sit down and hear what I say
I'm tired of trying so hard and getting nowhere
But I'll make it further that you I swear
You think you can break me and cut me down
What I'm bringing to the table is a new sound
Other people get pissed off and angry
When things get weird you start acting strangely
I look the other way
I tear out another page
From this book of lies you've written
And these words are smitten
You've bitten off more than you can chew
Let me promise, I'm done with you

A World In Tears

Order turned into chaos, chaos turned into madness, madness turned into fear, and fear...well, fear was all that was left.

The cities burned.

The people died, and the world slipped into a darkness so deep that the sun itself could no longer penetrate it.

Plant life withered away.

Animals became more civil than humans and retreated into far corners of the earth where the blood and war was less.

In the end there was so much blood that the oceans themselves turned red and the dirt was stained crimson.

In an empty field of debris and falling buildings stands a man.

He is holding in his hands the only shred of sanity that he has left.

A book.

His book from before the war.

A history of his life that he had kept since he could remember.

He held it close to his chest as he fell to his knees, finally giving into his one and only remaining friend: death.

Fear was snuffed out by death, and death turned into a myth, myth became the end of time.

Collide

Pick up the pieces when our hearts collide
Defeat my purpose and I cannot confide
Broken apart by a senseless decree
Yearning to fly, yearning to be free
Battling the inside of the soul
Fighting a fight and losing control
You cannot win, you cannot lose
Stuck in a struggle forced to take the abuse
So you pick up the pieces when your heart collides
Feeling and freeing your mind and taking in strides
You've had enough, but it's never enough
Hurting yourself more than anyone just because
And so you cry out in anguish and frustration
And you stare into the eyes of the manifestation
Ugly are you, and beauty is love
Hurting yourself because, because, because...
But hope still remains as you lift your hanging head
You take the hand and your fears become dead
Your eyes are shining with tears and you look above
As you and your body collide with love

Blood Sky

Tora begot Ablam, Ablam begot Thagar, Thagar begot Temon, Temon begot Lucius, Lucius begot Fangar, Fangar begot Elmis, and Elmis begot Tablan who begot Ebor.  Thus lay the genealogy of Ebor's family.  They were not high-born folk, nor were they poor peasants.  They were a middle-class family who lived in the great city of Thamopolis.  Ebor, like his father's before him was a blacksmith.  He was no common blacksmith though.  For he had Elf blood in his veins.  Elves were known for their natural ability to forge beautiful and even sometimes magical metals.  Ebor was, unfortunately, the least skilled of all his family as a blacksmith.  Nevertheless he worked at it day and night, forging blades and armor that would sell for nothing but the highest price.  Ebor himself had forged King Mormont's current set of armor and blade.  The King's blade was short and broad with a hilt that twisted like tree roots.  The pommel was in the shape of a two sided flower with delicate petals.  Elven runes were etched into the blade and it was forged with spells that kept the blade from dulling.  It was probably Ebor's finest work, though he knew that his father or his father before him could have done better.  Still Ebor was the best smithy in the city, probably in all the land of Aeron.

One day Ebor was working, hammering away at the blade of what would soon be a beautiful exotic looking scimitar.  A man in a cloak with the hood drawn up walked into the workshop.  Ebor thought it was odd that the man wore a heavy cloak, with the hood up no less, because it was very hot out, as most days were during the summer months in Thamopolis.  The man's face was hidden by the hood, his head bowed down towards the ground.  In fact Ebor was not so sure the man even had a face beneath the hood.  Everything about the man was strange and slightly frightening.

"Hello there," said Ebor.

"Greetings, blacksmith," the man said in a raspy, low voice.

"How can I be of service?"

"I wish you to make me a blade."

"What sort of blade, most customers who want a custom blade have a drawing of sorts, some kind of plan."

"I have no drawings, but I will tell you my plan." 

The man stood there and when he said nothing Ebor cleared his throat and asked "What is your plan for the blade?"

"It is to be a double edged broadsword.  I know you infuse the blade with Elvish spells to keep it in perfect condition.  I trust my blade will not dull anymore than the King's blade.  The hilt may be standard, but the ends of the hand guard are to be rounded in a teardrop shape, with the end point facing out.  I want the handle covered in wolf's hair.  The pommel is to be shaped with a wolf's head, two diamonds will sit as eyes.  The whole hilt of the sword must be coated in gold."

"This will be an expensive sword.  My labor alone is not cheap."

"Price is no object.  Tell me, how much will it cost?"

"Twenty gold coins, and ten silvers."

"Very well.  I will be by tomorrow to pick the sword up, before sunset."

"I cannot finish the blade in that time, besides I have other weapons I must finish first, orders that were placed before yours."

"I will return before sunset tomorrow.  You will have the blade finished."

The man walked out and Ebor called after him.  He ran outside and looked all about the street but the cloaked man was nowhere to be seen.  Ebor returned inside and continued his work.  He finished the scimitar that night and though he had another sword that he had to start on the next day, he decided to work on the wolf sword first.  The wolf head pommel alone would take hours to make.  Ebor was not sure he could finish the blade in time, but he had to try.

The sun was setting and the cloaked man entered the smithy.  He dropped a bag of coins on the table and faced Ebor.

"Is it ready?" he asked.

"I finished it not ten minutes ago," Ebor said.  He walked to the sword rack and pulled the wolf sword off and handed it to the cloaked man.

The man grasped the sword and held it in front of him.  His face was still hidden, and Ebor was not sure how the man could even see anything.  The man stared at the blade for a few moments then turned and cut Ebor on the arm.  Ebor gave a shout of pain.

"What did you do that for?"

"I want you to feel what it is like to feel pain at your own hand.  Your hands made this blade, I cut you with it.  You are the reason you are feeling this pain.  You caused this pain.  Every sword you makes causes someone pain somewhere, you should feel some of that pain."

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"You forge death."

"I forge swords and armor!"

"You forge war."

"I'm just a smith!"

"You forge evil.  Now you must feel what you forge."

The man raised the sword high above his head and brought is down, cutting Ebor open from shoulder to stomach.  Blood gushed forward and pooled around as Ebor collapsed to the ground.  The cloaked man stuck the sword in Ebor's head and the took his leave.

The sun set red.

Living A Dream

A baby boy was born.  He is a tank.  Strong and agile and into everything, keeping his parents busy.  He gets his first "job" at the age of six opening a lemonade stand on the side of the road outside their house.  He did this every day of every summer for the next four years.  At the age of thirteen he began volunteering at the local library, which he did for three years.  At sixteen he began looking for a job, and soon found one with a lumber company.  He worked there for three years and at nineteen was a manager for the company and in college.  He took summer classes in between semesters and worked the whole time.  Sleep was a thing of the past, but that was okay with him.  He is happy.  By age twenty-six he has graduated with a masters degree and he gets his dream job of being a teacher at the local community college that he once attended.  He is happy.  A reliable car, a reliable job, a nice apartment.  But he is lonely.

Twenty-eight years old he is out with friends having some beers and a burger at a local pub.  The waitress is pretty.  Too pretty for him.  No shot with her he knows that's for sure.  But after a good tip and a quick chit chat with her they are dating a month later.  Her name is Emily.  She is younger than him, only twenty-two, but they don't care.  She's a sweet heart and more than he should have ever deserved.  He loves her dearly.  She loves him too, very obviously.

Another year goes by and he and Emily are now married.  She is twenty-three and he is twenty-nine.  They are so happy together, living in his apartment.  He teaches, and Emily is still a waitress at the pub.  She's a college drop-out.  It wasn't her thing, and she makes good money being a waitress.  She wants to have a family someday anyway.  She has her MRS degree as she jokingly puts it.  She's not ashamed.  Nor is he.  He's happy with her, and she with him.

Emily is now thirty and he is thirty-six.  She is pregnant with twins.  They have a a beautiful boy and a beautiful girl.  They grow up.  The boy becomes a successful business man and the girl becomes nurse.  They both marry into well to do families and live busy lives.  He and Emily live a happy life in their apartment.  He retires at the age of sixty-five.  They are both young enough to still enjoy life going hiking, surfing, even sky-diving.

Two years later.  Emily is sixty-one and he is sixty-seven.  Emily is dying of cancer.  The kids are off in other parts of the country when she passes.  They call him but are too busy to come to the funeral or even visit him.  He understands.  He was once a busy man before he retired.  Now he once again volunteers at the community college in the library there.

One night he meets some friends at the local pub where Emily used to work.  He can't believe it's still there, but then again it is a popular spot.  It's a whole new crowd of people there.  Young people like he and Emily used to be.

Oh, Emily.

He is now seventy-three.  He sits on his balcony and drinks beer every night.  Occasionally he goes out with his friends.  He dials his son's number.  Voicemail as usual.  He leaves the message.  Then he dials his daughter's number.  She answers.  He tells her.  She actually starts to cry.  She says she will be out to visit soon.  He never hears from his son.

A year later he is dying in the local hospital.  His daughter and her husband are by his side.  They do not have any kids.  He is a grandpa by his son, but his son has not called or shown himself.  He is not unhappy, and his lasts thoughts of of his kids, and their rich and fulfilling lives, and of course, of his sweet, sweet Emily.

His son does finally call days later.  He is devastated when he finds out that his father has passed away, and never got to say goodbye.  Never got to say goodbye...because he was too busy living a dream...

This is another short poem by an author no one knows...

Beauty.

Be thankful for this.
Everything matters to us.
All of this is not real.
Underneath the ashes we still.
Thinking we can.
Yonder we cry.

Beauty.