“A Dream Within A Dream”

This poem is not mine-although the voice is as desperate and melancholy as I am-but the words of beloved Poe. I bow to him, and suggest the beautiful shavings of his soul to any who likewise feel ground by Life. Enjoy!

“Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand —
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep — while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?”


1. A teenager’s realization that this world is fucked up and full of lies, brainwashing, bullying, and straight up bull shit, and the reaction either to fight against or withdraw from it. [reason for the existence of punk and metalcore music]

2. Anger and rebellion to oppression and misunderstanding due to lack of communication resulting from the lack of love and attention given by parents or guardians.

Graveyard Roses

I stole some graveyard roses for you,
Some red, red, roses for you.
They were in full bloom,
Arranged perfectly in a crystal vase over
Bartleby’s tomb.
I knew they’d be perfect for you.
You know it’s over-
You knew it was over-
So I brought a parting gift.
But I kept one of the roses.
There were thirteen of them,
But I didn’t want you to have any bad luck-honestly,
No hard feelings, only empty ones-so
I held onto one of them and it sits
A dried, dead shade of its former, passionate beauty.


Wassup! I’m terribly sorry I haven’t posted anything in a while, my Papa’s dying of three different cancers so I’ve been helping my poor Nana stay afloat and not drown under the stress of preparing for life after he’s laid to rest. Anyways, it is the Fourth( or was when I wrote this,) and life is sucking right now, so enjoy!

Life is a war fought for peace.
A battle of bloody calamity for unblemished tranquility.
Endlessly upwards towards Parnassus
A war is waged without an end in sight
For all the world’s might is bent on the Right
Till they don’t know it’s wrong-
The essence of my song is that life goes on and on
And when we think that peace is coming it only means there is a respite
In the ravagings of death and pride, those
Eternal cronies,
And we can’t bear any more inside cause the hospital beds of our hearts are full with the wards we
Pick up on the battlefield as we march along, ordered by the masses we
See shuffling along beside us-
We do what we want when we want it
But that only breeds disunity that comes
On the edge of declivities
To the sharp rocks that await below-the collapse of civilization-
As if one nation could hold
The station of watchdog of the world with
It’s golden sword of liberty
Swaying aloft and unsullied by the
Blood of conflicts not its own. Whatever happened to
The Doctrine( Monroe turns and crumples to dust in his grave?)
Am I my brother’s keeper?
The Sempiternal question breeding misdirection as
Each tends to his own knitting or
Whatever seems fitting
To please his heart of stone,
A stone metamorphosed by the
Liquid Love hardening in the cruel oxygen of
This worlds hostile crime. Oh where did we wander off the path straight an
Narrow and become slaves to Pharoah!
Our pride has blinded us from the dangers of postmodernism, the drug for the diagnosis of realism,
Where we set up a million lights made of darkness-
we’re dwelling in a cave and
We keep bumping into the stalactites precariously hanging down above us,
Ready at a moment’s notice to impale us on the stalagmites below, a swift death demised by the mountain-builders of truth-rejection and lie-protection.


Imaginary Prison

I’m trapped and I can’t get out.
The chains of my bondage
Have shattered my soul.
A grey mass of filth
And putridity, a nest of squirming maggots, tumbles
Recklessly from my chin.
Patches from ancient trousers, cursed by the sin of their former wearers,
Protects my legs from the ravishings of
The disease-laden drafts,
Malaria-infested rain-which through
Slits in the mortar and stone of my
Cell seep-and
The rodents, with their devil-may-care
My flesh devours itself as
My bowl full of maggots-with soup
Mixed in-is tossed out the
The Window.
There is a Window,
A taunting, cruel-hearted Window,
Which chuckles as a ray of warmth
Slips between the blockade of its iron sentries, here
A second, then lost forever as my
Eyes lap it up like hostages
Marooned on a desert isle.
They say Freedom doesn’t exist-the bastards!
You know what Freedom is-it’s the
Carrot dangling on a pole before the horses,
Goading their foaming skin and bones onward,
Egging them on to reach the Impossible,
Until there’s naught but his shoes left.
Then, chortling with contempt,
They toss the carrot to the wretched beast.