Chapter One.

It was getting dark and her mother didn’t like her taking short cuts through the woods at night, but she knew the woods off by heart, afterall, and it wouldn’t take long, plus it wasn’t night just yet. So, she turned off the road and left the bus shelter behind and began down the dirt path, holding onto the straps of her backpack and looking out into the distance for the twinkling lights of the town that would come into view soon enough.

All around her, evening creatures began to wake. Luminescent insects and chirping bugs fluttered about, birds and bats got on with their nightly shifts, and the fireflies started to flicker on and off like sparkling embers in the growing evening mist when suddenly, a loud creaking noise echoed past her ear with a swoosh and a low rumbling, nooooo.

She spun around,

“Hello!? Is anybody there?”

but nothing was there, she turned back and gripped her straps tightly, “Just the wind” she told herself, speeding down the path. Best getting home before it got too dark, in any case, she thought, now very aware that the trees were beginning to disappear into silhouettes around her, silhouettes that turned into shadows. And the chittering bugs began to sound much larger and much hungrier than minutes before.

She hurried along, her breath catching in the mist that seemed to grow out of nowhere, but didn’t get far. A hand grabbed her shoulder and she turned around, and then she screamed, and fell to the ground yelling out in terror at the monster that looked down.

She shrieked and kicked at the air and called for help, called for her mother, called for the police and anyone else that could hear her and when her eyes began to adjust and the monsters face came forward into the moonlight mist, she stopped, and frowned, and became speechless. In front of her, standing there, clear as day, as recognizable as anything, was something that appeared to be a penguin. It looked down at her oddly. It flapped its flippers, cocked its head to the side and simply said,

“Chirp”

The little girl was dumbfounded. She’d never seen a penguin before. She caught her breath and asked,

“Are you a penguin?”, the penguin simply answered,

“Chirp”

Odd, she thought,

“What are you doing here?” she asked, “are you lost?”, and just then another voice from behind her said very deeply like a cavern,

“Where else would a penguin be?”

The little girl spun around to see the tallest man she’d ever seen in her entire life! And for a moment, she was stunned into absolute silence.

He was as tall as the trees, he was a giant, and had a great big silver beard that ran all the way down to his knees, a wrinkly and leathery face underneath it, and eyes that seemed to disappear deep behind his heavy grey caterpillar eyebrows. Atop his scragly head, he wore a great big wreath full of sprouting cherry blossoms and a nest with a chirping little sparrow pocking its head out curiously.

“W-Who are you?”, the girl stuttered, quite frightened once again and pushing herself back while arching her neck to look up,

“I’m the King of the woods, of course” the old king answered,

“The King of the woods? But I’ve never seen you in these woods before”

“Of course not” the old king replied, “you aren’t in these woods anymore, you’re in my woods, which begs the question” he peered down at the little girl, which took him a long time to do for it takes a long time to peer down at anything so close to the ground when one is as tall as a tree, “why did you walk through the door?”

“The door? What door?” she asked,

“That door!” the king pointed behind her. The penguin, who was still standing in her way, simply said, “Chirp” and wattled off.

The girl could now clearly see a door in the middle of the path. It was closed and looked like an ordinary white wooden door.

“I-I didn’t see a door before. I was just trying to get home, it’s a short cut, you see. But, why is there a door in the middle of the path?” she asked very confused about what was happening,

“Well where else would a door be?” the king replied not helping her confusion at all.

“On a house” the little girl simply stated, a fact that above all else right now at this moment she was certain of. But the old king wouldn’t have it,

“What on earth is a door doing on a house?! You must’ve hit your head pretty hard little lady” he leaned down and tapped the top of her curly black hair with one of his long and giant fingers, “you’ve got some nerve walking through doors. Dangerous things you know, best stayed very clear from…”

“Doors are dangerous?” the girl said, finding the courage to push herself up to her feet, “That’s a silly thing to say, we have doors in my house and they aren’t very dangerous” she dusted herself off,

“Houses? Doors in houses? What absolute nonsense. You have hit your head harder than I thought. Come on now, a cup of tea will help put a stop to this” the old king said,

“But I have to go home” the little girl replied.

“Home?” the old king said, peering back towards the path ahead, “I think you’ll find yourself far from home little lady”

The little girl looked past the king, down the path to where she could always see the distant lights of the town, but nothing was there now, just more path and darkness. She looked back where she came from and the road had disappeared too. No bus shelter, no cars. The mist was heavy now and the woods seemed very different from before. Deeper, darker, creapier then she’d been used to. Even the sky wasn’t the same. The Moon loomed over the world almost as if it were alive, and the clouds and the mist covered the stars in grey and red.

She wasn’t where she was. This was very clear, and her heart made no effort to calm her down. She looked at the giant, who just looked back at her, and she looked at the penguin, who wattle back and forth, and then she looked back at the door, “But can’t i walk through the door again? Can’t I go home that way?” she asked,

“Afraid not little lady” said the old King with a tsk, “no door goes to the same place twice. And once a door closes it cannot be opened again. Afraid you’re stuck here, in my domain and kingdom, come on now, tea will help and I’ve no sense to stay in the middle of this path all night talking to you about it, my crown needs feeding and there’s dangers we’re best to avoid on misty nights like this” and so the old King, the small girl and the penguin all made their way through the woods, the fireflies leading ahead of them to light their way, ever loyal to their king.

-

The Kings home wasn’t what the little girl would ever consider a home, especially for a king. It was a circular opening in the middle of the wood, like a mossy gully, surrounded by waves of thick roots that spiralled in and out of the earth and sprouted purple and pink flowers when they entered, as if on command. The girl sat on one of the lower roots, but her feet were still considerably high off the ground, and she watched as the old king busily went back and forth, tidying up. He rummaged into his deep pockets and with the greatest of care took out a pinch of worms and held them above his wreath crown. The little sparrow emerged from the nest and plucked them with a song and the king gently stroked its head.

Then he continued dipping his hands into his pockets and placing objects into holes in the trees. And they were the strangest objects she’d seen, the girl thought, watching him intently. Mushrooms that seemed to whistle when placed down, funny looking branches that wriggled about, stones of various sizes, some that glittered, some that seemed to move and change shape all on their own. Jars of dust and other such things. The fireflies scattered around the old king’s home, fluttering in some of the holes, illuminating the little knit knacks and things within them. And the large Moon that slipped in through the canopy of the trees painted the gully a silvery hue, which, along with the fireflies and the colourful flowers made it all look like a picture in an old book of fairy tales, the little girl thought, and she found herself swept up in the wonder.

The old king finished putting his things away then reached into a hole in one of the trees and produced two little cups,

“Here you go” he handed one over. The girl looked at the cup, it was made of leaves, and there were little flowers that spourted in colour, just like the those on all the trees around them, it was a pretty cup, a spring cup.

“Are you really the king of the woods?” she asked, not as scared as she was before,

“I am the king of all the woods” the old king replied,

“All the woods? you mean here, wherever this is?”

“I mean here on this world and in every world, even yours”

“Even mine?” the little girl pondered, “so you can go to my world? You can take me back?” she asked excitedly. The king frowned and shook his head,

“No” he said, “But trees and woodland creatures all take their life from my spirit, we are all connected, you see. The moss, the leaves, the vines, the bugs, the branches, each bit of the forest of the woodlands, every little shrub is an extension of me. However, I stay here, this is my home and my kingdom and I cannot leave it.”

The girl sighed then jumped back at the penguin who popped up beside her and was looking at her oddly, chirping away very much amused by her. She looked at him and smiled as he swayed back and forth happily,

“Why is there a penguin in the woods?” she asked,

“Now what kind of silly question is that?” the King mused, “where else would a penguin be?”

“Where there’s snow?” the girl answered,

“Snow!? Why on earth would a penguin live there?” the old king furrowed his brow attempting to fathom such an image. Suddenly, an owl popped out of his thick long beard and said very drawly,

“Penguins do not like snow” and then retreated.

“Oh, shush you, Paribium” the old king dismissed, “you, know it all librarian. Get back to your books” the old king said, then he looked up into the canopy of the trees and smiled and it reminded the girl of a smiling tree, if that was at all possible, “teatime!”

The girl held her cup and looked up at him. Then the old king whistled a soft tune and said,

“Hello trees, could we have some tea please? Chamomile, with a little lemon for the young lady and some honey” and just like that the canopy began to rustle and shift and in moments a steady stream of rain began to pour down, “well, don’t waste it, go on, hold your cup up” the king of the woods said, holding his own cup high above his head, which almost reached the canopy itself. The girl held hers up too, much lower, and closed her eyes against the rain drops. When her cup felt full the trees stopped moving and the rain stopped falling.

She took a sip, it was warm, and indeed it was chamomile, and had a sweet taste of honey and lemon too! The penguin began flapping and dancing about with his head back and his mouth open with great excitedness and the king turned towards him with his heavy eyebrows coming together like two grey warms,

“Go on you, be off with it, I’ve no time for your dancing tonight. Go and get yourself some food” he said. And the little girl watched as the penguin wattled off then extended his flippers and floated up against the air, ducking past the trees and into the skies high above.

“He can fly!” she said astonished,

“Well of course he can bloody fly” the old king said, “what do you think the wings are for, cooling himself off in the summers?”

“Well, it’s just that Penguins don’t fly where I’m from. They live in the snow and walk around”

“How boring” the king said, “and wrong. And speaking of where you’re from, why on earth did you walk through that door, didn’t you hear the creaking warn you?”

The little girl looked down at her tea,

“I heard something, and then I walked faster because I was scared. My mom told me never to take the short cut in the woods at night, but it’s only a short walk and it wasn’t night just yet. I didn’t know” she looked up at the old king, “is the door really closed?”

“Afraid so” the king said,

“Isn’t there another door?”

“Oh, there’s plenty of doors young lady, plenty of doors indeed, but we steer clear of doors, doors are dangerous things. I walked through a door once, many years ago, when I was a wee little prince of the woods and my beard was only a meter long. Ended up staring eye to eye with a huge lava lizard that spat acid at me and chased me all around a volcano. Almost didn’t make it back before the door closed shut. Never walked into another again”

The little girl sipped her tea and swung her feet back and forth not knowing what to do or what to say and sniffed back tears and thought about her mother. The old king sighed and sat down next to her, his knees coming up above her head. She was a thimble compared to him.

“There might be a way” he said thoughtfully. She looked up at him eagerly,

“Really?”

“It’s dangerous” he warned,

“I don’t mind, really I don’t. I’m not scared of anything” she said,

“Oh, really? And how about of penguins?” he cocked an eyebrow, and she blushed,

“Well, I won’t be scared anymore”

“Alright then. There is someone that may be able to help you. No one knows his real name; he is known only as the Orphan King and resides in his kingdom of the clouds. He too was once from another place, just like you, and a long time ago he walked through a door and ended up here, just like you as well. Ever since then, he has been searching the clouds for every door he can find, hoping that one day, he can find the door that leads him back home. Some say he has been up there for fifty years now, with little luck. But if anyone can help you find a door you need, it’s probably him, no one knows more about the doors then he does”

“And he lives in the clouds?” the little girl asked curiously,

“Of course. That’s where the doors come from. Up there” the old king looked up, “the clouds are filled with doors and it is from the clouds that they fall to earth, but he stays up there. Stays with the doors, walking the clouds all by himself. Some call him the crazy king. Though I’ve never met a king that wasn’t a little crazy” the old king said with a wry smile that creased his leathery face and a wink that made the girl want to giggle. Especially when the little sparrow popped its head out of its nest above him and winked too.

The little girl cheered up a bit and she drank the rest of her tea and then thought of a little problem.

“But how can I get up to the clouds? I can’t fly”

And then the answer to her question came as if from nowhere, as from the shadows emerged a black and white shape that wattled in, satisfied and fed, and simply said,

“Chirp”.

-

The little girl slept in a hole in a tree. It was comfortable enough, and deep enough to have a bed made of leaves and twigs and she found it rather comfortable all things considered. The old king was kind enough to give her the warmth of a little fire, which he told her was extremely dangerous in woods such as these and she should feel very lucky and make sure to never light one within a woodland or a forest.

The next morning she had found that the old king had carefully packed up her back pack with a large hallowed out mushroom, vines, rootes, and some snacks, a few of the odd looking sticks, and the cup he gave her the night before.

“With this cup” he told her placing it inside, “you shall always be able to summon a cup of tea from any tree in the world. Simply hold the cup up over your head and ask for the tea you’d like, and ask nicely, there’s nothing trees hate more than rudeness”

The little girl nodded, the old king continued,

“The sticks are useful and provide shelter, as long as you know how to place them. The penguin will help. The mushroom is only to be used once. When you’re in danger, and I fear, oh how I fear, that out there you surely will be, and when you are put it on and jump. Don’t worry about the rest.

“The penguins name is Misty, he’s a quick one, so hold on tight when you fly on his back. He’ll take care of you and bring you safely to the Orphan King of the Clouds. But be careful little lady, kings are none to play fools with. Watch yourself and keep your distance. Now you must find the thickest and greyest of clouds. Trust the penguin, and trust yourself, and do not walk through any doors unless you are certain it is home, lest you be lost forever”

“Yes” the little girl said and then she asked, “But can’t you come with me?”

“Alas I cannot. My domain is my kingdom and my kingdom is safe only when I am in it. There are creatures out there that would do terrible things to the trees, if not for me. And we wouldn’t want the Stone Wizards walking these paths”

The little girl nodded, because it was the polite thing to do, and thought it best. Then she readied herself, and thought to ask another question,

“If doors are dangerous, what do people walk through to get into their houses and things?”

“Holes” the old king simply said, “but most houses do not need holes. Now please, no more questions, I do feel foolish answering such absurd things. Everything will be clear enough out there. Now, go on. Misty, you take good care of her, fly for now until you reach the end of my domain, then walk until you reach the clouds. The penguin needs rest and eats the moss that grows on the highest air. Come” he said, and with a single hand he scooped the little girl up and put her on the penguins back. She held tightly around his neck and asked the penguin if he was alright. Misty simply said,

“Chirp” and with a flap and a wattle, the little girl and the penguin met the air, and started ascending towards the canopy, round and round the large trunks of trees and over and below the branches and the leaves as the insects and birds of the woods trailed them like a colourful chirping chorus until they burst through into the bright and brilliant day.

“Before you go” the old king yelled up, “What is your name little lady?”

“Maggie!” the little girl yelled down,

“Good luck, lady Maggie” the old king said, having climbed up enough to pop his head out of the canopy and wave happily at her, “good luck and good travels! I hope you do find the way home!”

And Maggie and Misty flew into the clear blue skies, over the king of the wood’s vast woodland domain toward the lands in the distance and the clouds which they held.

“Thank you!” she said waving back, and she held on tightly, and whispered deep within her, I hope so too.

#fantasy

#fairytale

#adventure

#childrenstale

#childrensbook

#fantasybook

#thedoortowhere

Tick tock, tick tock, there goes the Devil's Clock.

Raped and murdered, enjoyed the thrill, took their lives and drank those pills.

Tick tock, tick tock, there goes the Devil's Clock.

Fingered the jury and fucked the judge, told their mothers I hold a grudge.

Tick tock, tick tock, there goes the Devil's Clock.

Bought the ticket, one way trip, smiled and laughed as they flicked that switch.

Tick tock, tick tock, there goes the Devil's Clock.

Take me to that fiery place, flipped the bird as we passed Gods grace.

Tick tock, tick tock, there goes the Devil's Clock.

The train comes to its final stop. The whistle blows. Time runs out.

Tick tock, tick tock, there goes the Devil's Clock.

Laughed and sauntered, here comes Hell, the Demons got me and down I fell.

Tick tock, tick tock, there goes the Devil's Clock.

Times eternal, the Devil grins, my ass is up, here cums my sins.

Tick tock, tick tock, there goes the Devil's Cock.

Lying in the brindle breeze among the rolling plains,

my back's upon my home; that golden fare.

A smell so sweet amongst the wind from Uluru to Cairnes,

a thousand years of eucalyptus air.

The mother of this wild and torn, burnt and brittle land,

unhinged by time, her skin's a fiery blaze.

And father too on ranges rough and steady plays the band,

rides mountain side in storms of dusty haze.

Oh how the Kookaburra songs echo in the trees,

to wake me from my slumber and my bed.

They sing of ancient ages gone and tell of Darling streams.

of dark skinned kings who ruled old Arnhem Land.

Of valleys deep and country wide the stories they were told,

for heroes like good Clancy and old Ned.

Who stood with hard earned eyes and looked so wildly through the storms,

and fought the dust rains and the pistol lead.

This land of outback barren runs toiled its life to me,

raised me through the days and crackling nights.

Among the wattle brush I run amuck of childhood dreams,

and found my way back home from southern lights.

Through ages gone and ages come and times of rough and bleak,

You’ve only to look up towards the skies.

For there you’ll find; old friends, old lovers, old forgotten dreams.

My sweet Australian stars, Australian eyes.

I walked among the Waratahs and played through urban streets,

I sipped the honey from those purple tears.

And mates for life I’ll always have to share a summer swim,

or drink while reminiscing of our cheers.

But days and nights and planes go by and friends they come and go,

though few will always stay a call away.

And when the years are more behind then ever were before,

I know I’ll have a place to always stay.

And so among the brindle breeze amidst those rolling plains,

my heart it waltzes with Matilda still.

And where Wildflowers and wild grass bends beneath my step,

my final breath I’ll take upon that hill.

Once more I’ll glance with teary eyes towards that sapphire sky,

and find old friends, old lovers and old dreams.

And bid farewell to my good home as Magpies freely fly,

and Kangaroos drink sweetly from the streams.

Home.

#australia #poem #home #memories #australianfare #southernlights #poetry

When the village gathers at the farmer’s market dawn, and the tents go up a dozen at a time, one tent is added that no one ever sees, with two watchful eyes, staring as he breathes.

Families fill the park. Laughs and joys, the sun is up. Merry go rounds, a Ferris wheel, a

petting zoo, pie eating contests, balloon animals and clowns. Live music and tents filled with food. Toys and prizes and delicious youths that drool - over pink candy floss and greasy food. Such a lovely day for it, they think, what could ever possibly happen to me?

But in that shadow in that tent the watcher waits with idled breath, oh those tasty boys and girls, he whispers without a noise. Not a sound, his watcher eyes, his stare, his growl. The watcher glares and licks his lips and scans through faceless crowds, looking for their helpless pips. Staring while no one sees, the watcher watching and waiting for those who do not watch, those who never see.

A child cries out! The eyes dart right! The little girl, stretches up for her fleeing red

balloon. Her parents roll their eyes and yell then take away their little girl, damn! The eyes narrow like black cacoons. It’s early still, there’s much to do. He takes a growling breath and scans the faceless yet again. The watcher safe and sound inside his tent, his shadowed cowl. Dark and grey a rainless cloud. Creepy cracks the hollow stone, cement and cold. Grey like ashen hearth, grey like broken tombstones jutting from the earth.

The eyes, however, are not grey, but empty as an empty space. Not black or dark, but void, without. Not a single substance or a film, like two dead holes, moving and yet still. Watching to be fed, like a presence lurking at your neck.

A distance up two brothers wrestle in jest. The two little lads laugh and joke, their clothes spoiled with dirt.

A pig squeals from the petting zoo. The boys laugh and cheer.

The eyes they peer through faceless fools and watch as still as still. Their master’s breath, it stops. The boy is young, the brother slightly bigger, older. Their parents idle by, not watching those the watcher watches. A smile wrinkles the sides of his hungry eyes.

How lovely, he thinks. Two hands appear beneath. They rub in hunger and in lust. In the only empty tent, a tent forgotten, never there. A tent that was always there.

A child shrieks! The eyes creep -

They find the baby in the pram, crying for its mother as she chatters with another faceless

mother. She doesn’t watch, she doesn’t see. They never do. No one watches when the

watcher does. A smile creases at the sides of his empty eyes. The hands begin to rub. The

sounds of joy and laughter and the music and the strings that filled the farmers market in the spring all of a sudden flatten and dull like a deep quiet before the cull. They fall into the silence muffled by his spell. His breath grows stronger, snaps and cracks, fills the tent

that no one watches. In and out he breathes. In and out he slobbers. His eyes begin to twist. He’s found his feast. They spin and spin those empty things and listen to the baby’s screams then like a well those empty holes begin to swell. Those endless pools begin to whirl with rippling ink. The baby cries and shouts. A shrill that drowns the faceless crowds and calls to him. Beckons him. Floods and fuels his eyes with a thick black silk that falls upon the baby in the pram, a tidal wave of shadows in the night. Wretched eyes and dribbling lips as his hands unfold and flinch. Then they reach! Out of the shadow out of the tent. Out like wretched hands of death. Melting skin and jagged bones the fingers crack and twist through faceless drones. The baby screams, its arms flailing, its cheeks flush and its tears falling. His eyes spin faster still, a whirlpool, a storm, maleficent and mad, salacious and twisted! Miiiine! His breath snarls and rumbles and shakes. Cavernous and wet his breath, he can almost taste that death. It’s within his reach he stretches. Fingers crawl against the pram. The baby screams! The fingers reach! The feast! The feast! The feast his eyes call for the feast! And then…..

- the mother lifts her child into the air. The tent fills up, a deafening shriek of that unsatisfied defeated decrepit beast. The pools of ink burst and bubble and boil, his breath burns and breaks his lust is broken and then it slowly fades. The black seeps out, the emptiness remains. The hands coil beaten, turn and snap, back in the shadows, back

in the tent. The baby’s cries turn to sobs within the mother’s breast. Sobs soon muffle into sleep and infant rest. The baby lives. The watcher was not fed.

The evening comes, the sun goes down, the moon and stars all spin around and the day is done, home, for now.

Then the morning glows anew and the sun comes up, the festivities ensue. The singers sing and the Ferris wheel spins, the people filter in, those happy families, those happy kids. The sun smiles down at the endless crowds, the popcorn pops and the winners shout. But two eyes appear in an unknown tent, a place that everyone always seems to forget. They start to watch once again. They watch the faceless and wait to be fed. Watching for those who do not watch. Watching and waiting like he always does.

The End.

#horror #poetry #story #drama #thewatcher #scary #horrorpoetry #storypoem

What happens when you’ve run out of words? When everything you could have said was said and everything you could’ve done was done and all that’s left is nothing but silence and memories as you stand in front of each other, in an empty room?

The good times locked away in a picture on a phone and empty tomorrows all around. You sigh and she smiles. You both apologize for things never said and talk about days filled with love that was meant to last forever. Both broken, both shattered, both confused; and neither able to understand a world that spins without the other.

She touches your hand and you take hers. She looks down and loses a tear, you wipe it away. She closes her eyes and you kiss her forehead. She pulls at your jacket and you take her in your arms and as she squeezes tighter than ever before – sobbing into your chest - you breathe in and fill your mind with the smell of her hair one last time. After all those years, all those adventures, all those sleepless nights, arguments in the kitchen, naps in the rain, you’re just two strangers standing in a room, saying goodbye.

What happened? Where did it all go wrong? Neither knows and maybe you never will. Or maybe deep down you do know but you can’t bring yourself to admit it.

Eventually she leaves and you tell yourself it’s for the best, but your apartment feels cold. The books are lonely when she isn’t reading them. The cushions are hard when she isn’t there to hold them tight. The couch isn’t comfortable without her wrapped around you and the shows aren’t as funny when she’s not around to interrupt. If it’s for the best then why did she take everything that made you happy with her? If it’s for the best then why do you cry?

But time passes, and eventually, even the books begin to forget.

-

#breakup #poetry #writer #literature #love #poem #nonfiction

ink flowed, ink cascaded, ink dripped upon her skin

from waterfalls of epic poems cried by writer’s dreams.

she washed herself in that black pool of fairy tales.

that river of creative thieves.

washed herself with psalms of princes, lore of lowdy wizards and evil queens.

her skin turned black, turned obsidian and thick

with glossy moral metaphors like the deepest darkest sea.

her eyes could see the world,

not ours or hers but all the worlds exisitng in the artist’s dream.

she could swim in infinite galaxies filled with fantasies.

she could touch scales of dragons, hear the whispers of kings,

the soft kisses of knights who conquered kingdoms,

who rode on handsome steeds.

and those words which bathed her skin,

that warmed her limb to limb,

she could not dry away or forget,

or rub that luscious ink from her soft dark hair.

so instead, she just closed her eyes and smiled;

jumped into that pool, and drowned.

#ilijasekulovski #writer #poem #fantasy #fairytale #ink #writersink #poetry #literart @ilijasekulovski

I always knew. . .

That in my youth I used my words like shackles to bind her into a yes

That she had no friends. And only wanted affection and respect.

I only wanted sex.

She heard paper thin compliments, choosing reluctant solitude; slut was never really a choice.

I only saw a face and lips, and would say anything to drown out her voice.

How much of her was never seen when only her skin mattered to me?

How much I missed because I only wanted a kiss, caring little of the girl who was behind those lips?

I only hope the fire in her eyes grew stronger with every sleazy lie from every boy between her thighs.

Because of her, I look back with shame, and understand the true marks and courage it takes; to be a man.

One day, as the Prophet and the Priest traveled south on the road to Sudbar, the Priest asked the Prophet,

“How would you measure love’s worth?”

The Prophet thought for a while, then knelt down and picked up a small grain of sand. He held it up to the Sun,

“With this” he said.

The Priest, surprised by the Prophets answer, asked him how such a tiny grain of sand could possibly measure the worth of love?

The Prophet then threw the grain up in the air, letting the wind blow it into the desert.

“Find it and you shall know your answer” he said.

“It would take me a thousand lifetimes to find that same grain of sand in such a vast desert” the Priest replied.

“Ahh you see” the Prophet explained, “then you would have measured loves worth“.

#prose #philosophy #priest #prophet #wisdom #love #writer #literart

As I sit by myself on a bench by the sea,

I exhale as the skies turn dark over me.

A rain drop – two – three – then a thousand pour down,

and the air’s getting colder as my mind starts to drown.

But my body won’t move, no way, no how.

I’m dropping fast through the darkness, it’s almost over now.

Everything I thought I was, was just a shadow on the wall,

with one flick of a switch all that’s left’s a lonely soul.

Looking for the glass sitting in my life half empty.

Yet broken are the pieces as the shards all cut me.

On the brink of slowly dying with no words for the living,

fear of losing all those talents you were hoping you were given.

It stared long ago with a pen and some paper.

Word’s burning with a rhythm like smoke from a vapor.

In a minute I was gone just a child of the music,

and my scribbles turned to gold now I’m waiting just to use it.

It drops with a passion ready to partake.

Then stops when my fear swallows me like a snake.

And deep in a sea I’m fighting while I’m drowning.

No sleep for a King just waiting for his crowning.

Cause I’m meant for a world that’s waiting for a savior,

but the sea’s getting higher and I’m all out of papers.

Deep down my heart is sinking and my pen’s out of ink.

As my limbs begin to shake and the world starts to sink.

Then a hand reaches out from a light above the water,

grabs my wrists pulls me up, tells me that I ain’t a martyr.

Got a million days left and an evil to demolish.

Setting fire to the world with my un-denying knowledge.

So I stop. Breath. Take a little minute till I wake. See. Skies for a minute and I stand. Up. Waiting to hit that mic. No I don’t give. Up. I’m ready to start the fight.

#lyrics #rap #song #poet #poem #lyricist #poetry #ink #king #dream