Before you hurt someone think straight,

Maybe their life is already twisted,

Don’t pull the gun out behave,

Kill me please He insisted,

He didn’t think straight just wanted out

The killer didn’t understand why so

He fight it out,

Family worried didn’t know he’s abouts

Call the police please and find out

Bamm, bamm shots have rang out

Life taken away young and stressed out,

Left he’s kids fatherless

For the easy way out.

~Rafa~

9/28/17

Hello Ms. How are you today,

Why you work so hard on staying away,

Been looking for years trough night and the day

I just want to meet you & confirm what they say

I know is hard I know you’re in pain

I’m sure if you get to meet me you like who I’am

I need you Ms. Lady I miss you my Mom

This evil drugs hide away who you are

I never lose hope you put the addiction down

I don’t care what you do, but I need you now

My dad in he’s shame also ran out

Thanks for Uncle and aunt for not allowing me to drown,

I just keep thinking what life will be like

If drugs didn’t exist and you was just fine!

~I love you Mom~

~Rafa~

The wonder of how better my life can get remains a mystery

Just when I need it, it seems to disappear

Wind keeps blowing on my ear

That life will get better one day

I can only see things one way

The struggle of life keeps holding to me

God what’s the plan tell me I’m waiting on it

I have suffered enough and I’m tired

Some times I even feel my heart on fire

I just want to smile and live life

I want it all for my daughter & wife

~Rafa~

Professors

Strip-mined our minds,

Removing dance, songs & smiles.

Shoveling in

Math & chagrins,

Felonious facts by the mile.

E equals emcee-squared,

Energy, Earth &

Éclairs.

Bundle ’em up,

Pour in a cup,

Smash them while walking down stairs.

Honeyed sounds,

Teasing kids’ ears.

Ground-down with words & worm-gears.

Thread-chains of verse,

Shoved in a hearse,

Smashing the heart with old fears.

High-brows

Strip-mining minds,

Digging out jazz, risk & smirks.

Poking our ribs,

Telling us fibs,

All in the name of their work.

Lettuce

Turnip our nose,

Giving bananas appeal.

Leaving our schools

To schnapps & old fools,

Driving us back to what’s real.

Fried tomatoes, Olallieberry Pie;

Poached potatoes, red-necked guys.

Homemade cornbread, buttered-up,

Hot brewed coffee in a cup.

Step-side pick-ups with big wheels;

John Deere tractors in the fields.

Weathered boots, ol' blue jeans;

Corn-cob pipes, Ma's string beans.

Life is tough; that's no lie.

Hands are rough; smooth don't fly.

Work by dawn, bed by dusk,

Active bodies never rust.

Sweet tomatoes, Olallieberry Pie;

Loads of grain, miles of sky.

Horses, cows, goats & hens;

Farm-hand’s toil never ends.

Myself: Did you hear that, Trina? She asked if it's okay to talk to oneself!

Me: You dummy. No, I did not "hear" it. But I did "read" it.

Myself: *sigh* You know bloody well what I meant!

Me:  Calm down, girl, *pfft ...lmao*! Little does she know that we do it, like, ALLLLLL, the time!

Myself: For real. Hell, sometimes we even argue with ourself!

Me: Yeah, that's when things get REALLY interesting!

Myself: Except for maybe those around us, then it's probably scary.

Me: True dat.

Myself: But to elaborate, I think it's quite alright to talk to oneself-

Me: And argue with oneself.

Myself: Right. On occasion...Rare occasions... But it's actually good to talk to oneself, as sometimes hearing one's thoughts out loud, as opposed to just in one's head, can help one out when one has a problem. I don't know how that works, but it's true. And studies have shown that, as well.

Me: Correct...As long as it doesn't cause actual, you know, mental issues-

I: Like when I - *lmao* - show up?

Me and Myself: Oh, God, here she is.

I: I - *lol* was just trying to give an example of what can happen when things get a little crazy and oneself starts talking to two of oneself...And for that matter, shouldn't it be called "talking to twoself?"...Or maybe threeself, in this instance. Hmmm...

Me: *blink*...Aaanyway...Um, yeah. It's ok as long as it doesn't show a break from reality, in which case it may be time to see a head doctor. It may also be time to talk to someone if you're talking to yourself so much that you start to avoid other people in favor of listening to yourself.

I: Or selves.

Myself: Riiight...and thanks to you, I, I think - or should that be Myself think...thinks? - that our readers now have a good idea of what insanity looks like. Thanks alot, I.

I: *hmph* I'm leaving, then. I - *lol*- know when I'm not wanted! *walks out in a huff*

Me: *cough* So, um, I...that is, Me...hopes that we haven't shown ourselves to be so kooky that you won't take our word for it.

Myself: Yep. It honestly can be a good thing...And fun, too.

Me: So, we hope we helped you out-

Myself: And entertained you.

Me: And that you can commence with talking to yourself without fear that you're totally losing it.

Myself: Unlike, Trina, here.

Me: You DO know that you're named Trina, too, right?

Myself:...

Phaedras the Warlock opened the sturdy oaken door, ringing the small bell attached to it. The shop smelled like the oddest combination of concoctions: Phaedras smelled a bit of incense, combined with a soft smell or rotting flesh and the heavy odour of cooked mushrooms. The walls were stacked with shelves, each containing a wide array of potions, each with it's own colour and texture. Some in large round bottles, others in coneshaped flasks. One took Phaedras's attention. It was a bloodred liquid, contained in a flask shaped as a Chinese dragon. The potion seemed to radiate some red light as well, just before turning yellow altogether.

"Can I help you?" asked a crackling voice from behind the counter. Phaedras noticed a small but ancient-looking man.

"I'm planning on going into battle soon, and I'd like to see some of your most potent potions" He said.

"Ah, I see. May I know which creatures you expect to fight? Or are you looking for quick healing potions? I should have a Cantabrian back-on-your-feet here somewhere" And the old man started looking over to a few shelves behind him, rumbling some flasks out of the way.

"I'm good for healing potions, potion seller. I'm looking for something a bit more... specific."

"Let's hear it then, what are you looking for?"

"I will be fighting a powerful necromancer, so I'd like undead oils for my blade. I'd also want some additional protection against his magic, and maybe something that can help turn the battle in my favour." The potion seller raised an eyebrow.

"A necromancer, eh? Where'd you find one of them? They've been beaten a thousand years ago by the Immortal Queen Namrodia!"

"I only seek the materials to defeat one, not to tell a story. So do you have what I'm looking for?" The little man seemed to take that as a personal insult to his abilities.

"Of course I have what you're looking for! You're talking to the Grand Alchemist of our capital. If I don't have it, it doesn't exist! Let me see..." This time, he looked under the counter, where Phaedras could hear the rattling of glass bottles.

"Very potent undead oil, this one. Incapacitates any undead upon touch, it's potent enough to kill them, should you cut an open wound with your blade. It's worthless when fighting other creatures though, beware not to spill it." The bottle's content was dark white, if that makes any sense. It looked white, but dirty. The old man went to one of the shelves close to the door and climbed up a ladder. He dug another flask from one of the shelves.

"Drink this in one swig, and you'll find yourself immune to even the darkest magic for at least an hour. Probably longer, but this shop guarantees only a full hour. Beware though, powerful mages can still cut through this defensive barrier, but it will take them a lot of time and effort." He put the flask on the counter, next to the dirty white bottle.

"And finally, something to give you an edge... let's see here" He scratched his chin and let his eyes go over the shelves. Eventually he picked up the bottle shaped as a Chinese dragon. Phaedras noticed that the liquid had turned from yellow to lightblue. "There you go, now that'll be..."

"Hold on!" Phaedras said "what does that one do?" The little alchemist looked at the small dragon flask.

"It gives you an edge to win the battle. It's called dragon's breath. Hold on, I have an empty vial, let me show you." The shopkeeper got an empty vial from under his counter. It was exactly alike the one on the table, dragon shaped, but it had no potion in it.

"When you press here..." The man pressed a button in the dragon's neck "...you can see its mouth open on the other side" And indeed, the dragon's glass mouth opened.

"Make sure you point the dragon to your enemies, and anything you want dead or destroyed. This vial creates the most potent fire when exposed to air. The flask itself is heavily enchanted to protect the user. It's best to imagine this potion as a portable dragon to breath fire on your enemies. I should also mention that it only has one use, so use it wisely." Phaedras the warlock nodded,

"this will do, how much do I owe you?"

"Two standard potions, extra strong, means twenty gold coins. The Dragon's breath is a bit more costly, forty gold coins in total." Phaedras summoned forty gold coins from his moneypouch and put them on the table.

"Pleasure doing business." said the potion seller when Phaedras loaded the potions in his backpack.

Later that night, Immortal Queen Namrodia's palace

Phaedras struck the hundredth blow of the evening. Each of the onehundred Royal Guardsmen now laid dead. It was just as his research had pointed out. The anonymous and invincible guards of the queen were no more than Undead creatures, their skeletonlike features disguised by their armour. All it took to defeat them was a capable swordfighter with a blade treated with undead oils.

Now, Phaedras entered the throne room. The cold, dark granite room had only one entrance: the large door through which he had entered. There was only one window: a large, cathedral-like stained glass depiction of the Queen's victory against an army of necromancers, and her foundation of the mortal kingdom.

On the throne sat a woman. She was a gorgeous blonde, wearing what seemed to be a ragged dress: the remains of what she had worn a thousand years ago during the great war. Even though she was ancient, she still looked like she was in her early twenties, a charming young lady. But, unknown to her kingdom, she was not just immortal, she was a necromancer herself. She had vouched to destroy all of the undead kings, gaining support from the mortals. It all lead to her being the last remaining necromancer in the mortal world. She could raise armies from the dead, and her most loyal servants, like her Royal Guards, were secretly no more than reanimated skeletons. Phaedras had discovered this secret several months ago, and ever since he was burned on destroying her, the last necromancer. Only then could the dead finally have their deserved rest.

Dear Dignity,

I'm sorry I've abandoned you for so many years. Forgive me for not being able to manage your presence. I feel like you require so much attention and I have so little to give. I truly believe, from the bottom of my heart, that you would be happier in someone else's conscience. 

Don't take it personally. It's just that theres no space for you anymore. If anything, you can blame Mr. Foolishness and Mrs. Stupidity, their existence is simply incompatible to yours and quite frankly they're renting out more and more brain space over the years. 

You know how you get with them when things get out of hand. You try shoving them in a corner, out of sight, or writing them off under false labeling; Brother Acting and Sister Exhaustion are sick of of being slandered by you, and Mama Embarrassment just loses it whenever the slightest problem arises. 

I wish I had the B₡ (brain cells) to pay for your own mini lodging, but I'm sorry, I just can't afford it anymore, especially not with yet another Baby Exisistential Crisis on the way. 

She was a woman of the the mountains

of wild eyes

that crackled like lightning

and a broad and bristling frame

holding the force of the highest winds

in the muddy blackness of her mane.