The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible. ~Vladimir Nabakov

Wednesday, October 29, 2008


Hidden within resides the beast
Lurking behind rosy tinted glass
A second remains for it to feast
On anything but emerald grass
Devouring the flesh and mind
And each single ounce of sanity
His roaring sounds boom unkind
Pitilessly surfacing in unreality
Shameful of the work he hides
For a while till again one day
The smile of disgrace unwinds
Running wild over without obey
Razor collar around his neck
Does not control the libel acts
Causing scars and pain to wreck
Respect for self it mostly lacks
Punching, shouting heeding pain
Without gentle hand for another
Anger masked without restrain
Deprived of love from his mother
Psychosis surrenders at his feet
Locking him up again for years
Destiny of terror he must meet
As his love cloaks in silent tears
Submitted resolution upon arrest
Cries within the walls of his crate
Striving to be other then best
It settles to feed on his met fate
Decades have passed since I saw
Father's feral beast face to face
His hate and shame in utmost raw
Sadly too resides in my radiant lace

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