Forgive me sir Edgar Allen
Poe I must write this out because it's maddening
Me to no foreseeable end
I stand here, right noe, at ravens end.

I walked outside the chamber onto the Astral plane
And saw the thoughts, scribbles and pops that amounted in crowds insane
What was in my sight by no means plain
And I stood there, contemplating at ravens end.

An ebony bird flew onto my shoulder looking out at the subconscious murmurings gathered by the pink and gooey Boulder
He crowed loudly, silencing the ideas so I could speak
I shouted to them "FELLOW CITIZENS WE MUST OVER TAKE THE PEAK!"
"WE MUST SEARCH OUT AND RECLAIM WHAT MADE US UNIQUE!"
And the raven crowed again, it seemed as if it wished to speak.

Rousing the ideas were, and creativity flowed back into my head
Reactivating circutry that was once long dead
And outside the lab where I was laid to rest
A raven flew back home to his nest
He crowed loudly, so loud that one could hear what he had to say at the neighborhood store

And so I quote the raven... nevermore

Waiting Still for Tomorrow

Deafening tone,
Makes me not alone,
Continually singing a sorrow.
Bring not today,
For I beg keep away,
That lament until Tomorrow.

It whispers so loud,
“You are lost in the crowd,
Lost in a sea of harrow.”
It’s censure grew — strewth!
Mocking my sad truth,
Threatening what follows Tomorrow.

I attempt to evade —
Stopped by a palisade,
Yes, stopped by a wall of yarrow.
Plucking mere few,
Intent to make new,
My wounds and be healed by Tomorrow.

“Sweet yarrow await,
I shall be kept late,
By that tormentor who inflicts sorrow,”
But yarrow soon will fade,
Leave my mind in the shade, and
My heart waiting still for Tomorrow.

twisted and dark
the demon in my mind
i reflect an angel
but inside i am dying
my rivers have all flooded
and now they're dry
and i thought i was drowning
but now i must die
i do not want life
and i do not wish for death
but i do hope for a medium
inbetween where i can
stop floating in the abyss
of my angst mind
filled with sorrow
and guilt for merely being alive
i wonder what normal people
are like
but i will never know
because if you want a definition for
insanity, then look no further
than into my own mind
sometimes it's a good time
it causes for uncomfortable poems
that only the dark
will understand
that only the people who grieve
and mourn at breathing
the one's who have thorns
poking their eyes
us who see beauty
in death
we romanticize the things others fear
we are poets
we write poetry
about the things
we secretly thrive off of
we write poetry
when we are staring into space
at 2 in the morning
we write about the silence
we write about all of the bad things
we write about all of the good things
we write
thats all we do
and sometimes we laugh
and sometimes we'd rather be dead
than move our fingers onto paper
oncemore
but as poets
our duty is to be the disturbed
and the ******
and i will do my best at making your skin rise
because by now im more than used to the feeling of things shattering
inside of my own bones
and i will tear you limb from limb
and lick my fingers when the blood
is still fresh
uncomfortable yet?