PenToPage

By the wailing pool of black, sat a table, a table marble white. As white as the fountain pool, as sinister as liquid black. Upon this table white rested a checkered square, a checkered square of red and black to match the roses there. Many a game and many a night were lost atop these checkered squares, found on table marble white next to a pool of liquid black. And as the pool of liquid black sat on fountain of marble white, so did these checkered squares rest dolefully on blood spilled there. Many a man would wager there upon the checkered squares against the man of petal black. And many a many would lose more than he dared on games of checkered squares. What drove sane men to seek him there, he never knew. What stirred the men to wager more than dare and lose a flower there. A flower just discarded upon a checkered dare. Woe to the poor girls, for this isn’t fair, for they dared to not be there, now they shall lay bare. But a clever man, the petal’d man is, for

A Rose; From the Black Petal Man’s Garden Ho, now, thru and true, I stop thee, fair maid, on whateverthoust may descend upon thee that would have you rushing at this late hour; and thru my fields no less. Pray not thee warrant a fear, for what else could fields be made for if not for trampling about. … Pardon me, your Grace, but it would seem upon fair look of thee I recant my previous abrasion and see now to give you the proper respect you deserve. So fine a Lass could only flee in such tumultuous haste and fury if she were being pursued by foul wickedness of Ideals or the corruption that spawns in all our Kind. Pray that we not see corruptions sludge on one of the Kindred, for we may have to slay both an ideology and a friend. Nevertheless, my dear lady these moments are but common concern to our kind, as I recognize thee as a thing of beauty, regardless your haste. Pray, let me offer you refuge in my hidden home, it would be of most taking to a Lady of your stature, I assure

Shackled to a song Not even a Symphony Watching my mind soak in the notes Which I drown in fermented beverage For how else can I choke this verse Of all the plagues it has unleashed It is not done so that I can sing But to show that another song can be sung Yet if I must Sing I shall rise to the pulpit and conduct A hymn of pure silence Until I am inspired by my audience Waiting for this inspiration I shall hold my nations flag And let the cold winds of a Country bear down And grant mute audience to my Harmony Had us a laudable purpose I would have already been singing But as majesty would prevail I find myself enjoying the Darkness And watching all the trash Crumble away Like Kidney stones none of us need.

So there upon the precipice A forlorn shadow Bereft of natural warmth Yet kindled with a fire unnatural To them that the story knoweth Can but piece the fragments of an epoch. Yet they who dare to grasp within their palm sure knowledge Find themselves strangling thorns. The wayward flock that has been led by malice Can do naught but flail about the truly present madness. Made only so by the Dead architect, Who neither knowing Design or Purpose, Cast the entirety of our species into Darkness, For no better reason than to possess coin and rod. Truly, a man can fault not the desires of our forefathers. To instill order, so that hope blooms. To propose purpose, so that civilizations may prosper. To invoke the yolk, so that progress can be relished. These are worthy goals. Yet how flawed in their execution. For none have, until now, risen to steer the reins to newly fashioned demise; None have dared to cry out: “Look out ahead!” We took our favor in giving thanks to our guiding

A Marriage of Convenience There walking down the street, I alone and beholden to none save myself, I spied, within my mind, a blue-haired rose; her voice and presence sweet. She greeted me with silence, looked upon me with closed eyes and hit me atop the head; thus were we married. That was 15 years ago. I can still hear her laughing at nothing and everything and her voice still makes me smile. I bring her gifts from my adventures and she chews on them with a ravenous hunger reserved for scholars, researchers, and scientists. My horde of books has been visited upon by slender fingers caked in potato chips, yet never have I seen a book displaced or a page stained. My devices, both electric and of purpose meant for drink and smoke have been shared with a young girl whose notion of ‘share’ is to simply grab it, use it, and give it back. Her smiling face is quite possibly the greatest blessing I have ever received; along with the gift of knowing I can illicit such a joy from such a

And there upon the bow of a battered ship, A crest of ancient man, silent, immutable. Bearing all who gaze into its eyes to a shore of a forgotten world. A Land reap with treasure for scholar and warrior alike. The first who made landfall, an ascended shadow of themselves. Wracked with horror at the simplicity of Natures course, They now find Her as terrifying as the stoic Universe, Who could now only be said to be crafted by an Artisan. A device of resplendent precision, that echoes from itself the speech of but a mirror. Placed in the blackest of Abyss, Yet in that darkness, born a light, That reverberates a Hymn that is only heard once the choir is assembled. And here, today, breeching the Hallowed Halls of the internal Mind, Was loosed upon the world a discovery so foul. Yet only made so by the sheer blindness of our race. That should our tension be our only condemnation, we are fortunate. For here before this verdant void, we afford us an opportunity. To meet the challenge of

It has been some time since I wrote an entry on this page in a tone of candid seriousness. Yet circumstances, the state of affairs, and with Memorial Day Weekend just a few hours away, I feel a desire to speak. There needs be little mention that the pandemic and the ensuing conflict in Ukraine have turn what was already our unstable mindset, anxious nature, and present illness into an upheaval unmitigated. But just as our little group grapples, once again, with our mental illness under trying circumstances; Us ourselves are joined by the recent victims, living and deceased, of two Mass-Shootings in America. Not all of us are Americans in this group. But what I have hoped that groups and avenues like this Literary Page have inspired is a sense of empathy toward our fellow patients in the field of psychological maladies. It is this empathy, Empathy that is shared among all Humans during times of both crisis and joy, that I ask that Us all share this Memorial Day weekend. Although

Congratulations! Achievement Unlocked! :: ; 100% Voter Turnout! *Many Fireworks* The following Feature has now been added to your Account! -= * "The Might of a Singular Many" By achieving 100% Voter Turnout; The other Nations of the world now Pheer yours!

This is a Hallucination of mine. I remind ye that I am a Bi-polar, Paranoid, Schizophrenic; I hallucinate regularly, yet I am, more or less stable. This is of a sensitive nature. One day, When I took my mother to her appointment at a nearby hospital, long after my father had died. I sat, idle, in the car in a residential district, where parking was ample and where none would intrude. I was not under the inebriation of a drug, Alcohol or Marijuana, at best I had a cigarette. And there, on my left corner gaze, the top left corner of my visual perception, there revealed to me a ‘façade’ , a face, and this face spoke to me. “Please, Kill me.” My immediate response was….. “…do you realize what you are asking me to do…?” This, to my interpretation, this façade, was the Face of God. [I remind you I am mentally ill, Psychotic, schizophrenic, take this with a grain of heavy salt] It felt…as many of us know…that a feeling, a sensation, can communicate more than simple

The Devil; The Satan; However you may see this; However you may feel this; The tiring cry of pain comes not from Sin Committed, The howl of Atrocity comes from A simple misunderstanding. The Souls, now laid Vanquished. Hold no Hollow Rancor. Nor hold a hate toward the living, yet hold no scorn in their gaze from the blessed accidents of Youth. The greatest howl, Comes from a summation that can be epitomized, In the following refrain, of which we are all known, “What the Actual Fuck?” There have been tacked upon the Dead And, unfortunately, the living. A Burden that makes little sense. And makes none or negative progress. The restful peace of Ages, Is the same peace as a child gains, From imbibing an Apple, From a Tree so succulent. The Blood of our Titans, The blood of our Brigands, The blood of our Thieves, And the Blood of our Leaders, All served to nourish that Apple. In which our young, Now, in their Youth, Do so Justly, Rightfully, and Sacredly, Imbibe. The rivers