Identity, my old enemy, how do you do?
Making me wonder who am I, like you give a Damn.
Spinning my wheels at your hands, you make me crazy.
Poison arrow through my heart, heated dagger in my eye.

Thoughtless bastard, you darken my soul, make me lose my mind.
Through your torture, the push and pull, I find comfort in your arms.
Twisted love turned to hate, as I second guess my fate.
Where do I belong, you spit in my face, grinding my dreams to dust.

A poem is a kind of Zen Koan,
for people to decipher what life is,
without having it spelt out
in our already watered down intensity of expressions;
carved into stone, words,
words uttered by the great, the small and ourselves;
taking the mind for a kind of spiritual walk
in the whole of existence,
and leading one to see the truth you perceive,
the one that is your own personal expression of it,
at that particular moment in time.

And sometimes I feel. I just have to get away.
Run off, into the forests, wild and free
The blue streams will lap at my ankles
The warm sun will cast rays on my face
And I will laugh, I will cry.
Free from the constraints of societies heavy bonds
But for now I am trapped
Trapped, by my alarm in the morning, my daily routine
By the way I must act, the things I must say.
And the disease of consumerism
Is devouring me, inside out
For now I am trapped
But one day I will be finally free

Okay children, here is my final submission for your perusal. It concerns the blade of Princess Clair'ice Christenson who is one of the heroines in my epic poem ÇAÇÔ, Man of the Morning Star. It is written in strict "heroic verse" which is to say Dactylic Hexameter. I have not scanned it. That I leave to you if you would.