What’s Left Behind

I have felt nothing
That could not be put aside:
Love is just stupidity
When you put away the pride.

Pride is only arrogance;
Kindness is a lie;
Selfishness the only truth,
And only there until you die.

I believe that I’ve felt nothing
That could not be put aside;
So then why is all this darkness
The one thing I can’t hide?

Not Myself

I haven’t been myself lately
Just an echo of everybody else
I’m half convinced they half hate me
But it may just be they hate themselves

I’ve not been breathing well lately
I hold my breath like everybody else
Only half alive, and half crazy
Waiting for goodness or magic or elves

I’ve been thinking some of hell lately
It’s here with everybody else
The more I hear and the more I see
The deeper the dark inside of me delves


Frantically, she tore up the floorboards. “It has to be here!” she half-screeched, as she darted to and fro, searching different places. In the end, she collapsed, crumpling into a heap in the middle of what was left of the floor. Her bleeding fingers pulsed with pain, a reminder, and her glazed eyes wandered to one of the places where she’d torn up the wood. There should have been something underneath of it. A secret passage, a beating heart, a hidden stash with all the answers in it. Dirt, even. She would’ve taken dirt. But instead there was nothing. Just the void, that endless dark. “There should have been SOMETHING,” she whispered, eyes tearing up. “But there wasn’t,” her mind hissed back. Instead of crying, she began to laugh; a mad laugh. The darkness didn’t end at the floorboards.

Mr. Knives

If I ever find the wielder
Then there’ll be hell to pay,
For I can feel again the dagger
That with my heart just loves to play.

All I know about him
Is he has those steely eyes;
And there is no doubt about him
When he’s playing with his knives.

He comes to call when I am angry;
When I’m tired, and confused.
He sells his blades for free
And leaves my heart all steel-infused.

I wish I knew just why he did it;
But he’s always leaving knives,
And yet his worst leaving to wit
Is the need to stab him in those steely eyes.


When you get past the outer edges,
It’s a fall straight down;
We’re not ones for ledges,
And there’s no road back to town.
There is no path but forward,
And it’s a drop straight down:
I would say that you were forewarned,
But I wear each grievance upside down;
With every sorrow backwards,
And every smile as a frown.