Midnight Theater, and then some.

Goddamn folks, it's been a a long time.

Too long, in fact. I recall that period one month ago (or two?) when I was on fire, when I kept writing shit in the wee hour of the morning, and then out of nowhere everything stopped.

Right?

Yea, I remember. The reason behind this is because I had a few problems. Personal ones, which I won't share here (though I don't doubt that you know about that already). I actually did write some short stories, but to my horror, the stories became much more personal than the previous ones.

I mean, I actually put too much of myself in to them, you know what I'm saying? Those stories that I wrote actually became some sort of confessions and shit. I didn't like that. so I deleted them all (granted most of them were only a page or two long).

All except one, and although this one is quite personal, I kind of like it. It's probably my first attempt at a proper poem (or something that resembles a proper poem anyway). I find that trying to make a poem that rhymes is a pain in the ass, but I tried anyway. It's not too bad I guess, and given that I wrote it several weeks ago, I couldn't find it in me to read it again and make some adjustments (we laid back people are amazing).

But, a few words before the poem (or something that may constitute as a poem). First and foremost; I'm ok, or I'd like to think that I'm ok. I'm still breathin' folks, and now that fire is burning again in my head, still in the wee hour in the morning, still going out of it's way to bug the crap out of me every time I try to go to sleep. Yeap, I'm writing again. Feels great actually. Especially knowing that the stories I write will have nothing to do with me again. So yeah, I'm cool.

So now that the shit is out of the way, it's time for the next addition to my Midnight Theater, a poem (or something that may pass up as a poem) about what you'd expect to see when you look into a writer's eyes (or at least, one that's as messed up in the head as me).


Eyes

Look into my eyes and you will see,
A world you may find obscene.
I will be your host, I shall not deceive.
But you will find me a hard man to please.

To your left is a house.
It belonged to a dwarf who weighed an ounce.
The banshees killed him, his flame doused.
When they found that he cannot be aroused.

To your right is a tree.
And obvious though it may be,
You will find that strangely,
The tree can bleed.

If we move forward now,
You will see an elven drow.
He lives not far from here, in a burrow.
Near a garden where lilies grow.

Amongst these lilies, one stands out the most.
The drow cherished it, loved it, how bold…
The drow gave it a name, Lia, it’s not the worst.
For there are stranger love stories to be told.

For example, see that gallows pole?
There was a man there, hanging on to hope.
But he had such hopes, what a goal!
So hope embraced him, by the neck, over there, by the pole.

He was in love, this much was true.
But of the other end, I have not a clue.
I suppose it was not returned; he turned blue.
His last words were, “I’m mad about you.”

Walk a bit further now, don’t be afraid.
On the bridge is a writer with a braid.
He survived an onslaught, a raid.
By ideas of a story that cannot wait.

Underneath the bridge is a troll,
Who’s obsessed with a little doll.
Nay, don’t say a word;
I utter strangeness, but the truth I can only afford.

There is a playwright,
Who found his heart in a scene.
She filled him with white light
When she sang like an angel ought to sing.

A little bit further, dearest,
You will find a mansion,
And I am being earnest
When I say that for you did I build that mansion.

All these things you see,
Everything in this world so obscene,
All these and more, are me.
And I lay them down on your feet.

This is where you make a choice,
But think carefully, I will make no noise.

Accept me for who I am,
Accept the romantic fool that I am,
Accept the honest person that I am,
Accept the man that I am.

Or

Return from whence you came,
Though it will be to my dismay.
But if you were to look back, without shame,
You will find that I’ll be waiting anyway.

At least for now,

I will close my eyes.

*******************************************

And with that something-that-may-pass-up-as-a-poem, I bid you good night.

Sleep

Tight.

P/S: I'm back, bitches!