To the Paradox

all words point at the one
who took away all the fun.
all letters are acknowledging
the one who left nothing.

oh how these sentences lie.
on top of each other, so white.

all this and more, to the one who broods alone.

A lifetime of pourquoi pas.

Has this life been reduced to what I am now? This disgusting mechanism, like the fish [of gollum's riddle], never thirsty, always drinking, clad in mail, never clinking. This perfect uniformity, monotony, with the list of things to worry about increasing twice as much as the information entering my head. This hypocritical life, where I'm willing to spend a whole evening helping you run, but where I refuse to help myself stand. Consider the facts, you're already reaching end game, while I'm still considering my opening move.

This life has been reduced to black and whites. The keyboard I mechanically type on, the notes I mechanically read, violin strings I play on from memory, this keyboard with the black and white keys. This music, it's controlling me, programming the robot I am, until all I can say when I speak are lyrics.

And all my words point at you, because you taught me these songs I sing from memory, because they're all that I can remember.

Them and you.

To the War-Torn

Do we really need all this
Warmongering?
Do we even understand what we're doing, or why we do what we do?
Have we become so full of vengeance
That getting even is what we live to do
Without knowing when or why we should
Stop?
This foolishness is getting out of hand
And no one to stop it all
'Cause we're too caught up
In the power
Of being on top.

To the Guilty

Seven in the morning, people are running about
To wake me it takes less then one high shout
From the frenzied sibling who has just spotted
IT crawling under the pile of papers just sorted.

Enter Father, with spray in hand: "Where is it?"
"Hurry, do, for you're going to be late!" HIT!
The new spray that should kill within a second
Is taking much longer to find than we'd reckoned.

"Oh no Sir, I was late to University, not of my doing,
But due to the untimely and unexpected arriving
Of IT!" And then it seems to Sir that without fail,
IT's appearance is after two days' notice by mail.

Exeunt IT, and with it all order. With papers flying
And all sanity flying with them, Father with fervour
Roots out IT from the depths of last year's articles
Enter Mother, Broom in hand:"For the little particles!"

As I groggily drag myself out the room three voices
Warn me not to step on IT, [that's one of my choices
When I've just gotten up and don't really care
About what's on the ground or what's in my hair.]

Within minutes, everyone's left, for Uni, for work
With instructions not to waste time or to shirk
Which muddle me even more, so I'm confused
About IT being lost late hungry and ill-used.

After a bath my face is the epitome of rue
As I find there's not just one of IT but two!
Sighing I observe them with hardly a thrill
One's dead but the other is wobbling still.

As I delicately sweep the soul-departed shell away,
I realise with disgust the other's headed my way!
Or rather, to my own unkempt wild room
With nooks and crannies reached by no broom.

Barricading the doorway with this handy tool
I distract the stumbling creature under the stool
But IT collapses, i think it's had enough
I admit, in my cluttered house, life's tough

For a being such as IT, which has fallen on it's back
And flounders, trying to upright itself without knack
For the poor thing is dazed from previous contact
With the spray mentioned at the start of this act.

I wait, hoping IT will pass away of it's own accord
But this one's a fighter, and time loss I can't afford.
Bracing my wits and hoping there won't be a fray,
I pluck up my courage and pick up the spray.

Just to let you know (yes you) that the following is the start of a series that refers to more than one person (yes not just you).

To the Wronged

One by one, these hateful words
Lashing clawing biting like birds
At you, in my moment of frustation
Feeding, breeding a conflagration.

A little foresight, had I had that virtue
Would have told me I'll be hurt too
The words I can't believe I spoke
Fuel a fire that licks the one to stoke.

It's growing, glowing, this huge furnace
And it isn't one that I can try to harness
None can calm this self-bred beast save you,
Will you do so ere I am consumed through?

Though, as a late-arriving afterthought
Wouldn't everything for which you fought;
Wouldn't the bleak burnt land in between
Be worse than what is now there to be seen?

Leave this all-consuming fire be,
Let its warm waves wash over me.
Let me die in the hope that maybe
I'm not as bad as I make myself out to be.