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Pain Behind the Red Curtain

 Pain Behind the Red Curtain The happiness of the innocent child, Is very scarce and mild. The promised golden youth, wasted, For now pain they have tasted. Staring lifelessly at the evil screen, Destroying their hope and dream. What choice do they have but to scream, In agony and loneliness? They have no choice but to see what they lacked, Their will is crushed and brains hacked. The abyss of loneliness grows fast, Soon another ship shows its mast. A sign of hope from afar! Loneliness now begins to scar. The one and only true rival of loneliness, The answer is love with all fairness. Love burns like a flame, It can warm you or burn you. Pride is forgotten and sets in truth and shame. Oh, what a malicious game. Bit by bit love takes you over, Making you none less than a deplorable drover. Pushing you down the abyss even further, And now the retribution arrives much sooner. A devil does not dress as the prince of hell, It dresses as everything you ever wanted. The devil pushes you down
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Days and Nights

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 Days and Nights   The sun rises, Filling a blue hue in the skies. The clouds as white as ever, The moon still lies in mild sight. The people are asleep in great might. The birds chirp happily, The animals roam gleefully. How lethargic the rays are! The light isn’t reaching so far, The east showing the sail of the sun, A sail to be remembered and is so fun. The sun right on top, Slowly it makes even the water hop. The clouds begin to show their grey, And the dirt shall soon turn like clay. The sun seems powerful yet harsh, Why you ask? Afternoon is the time the predators feast, And the time when prey run to the east. They ray now seems active, Is man so passive? Passive as man maybe but more ignorant are they! The ground seems like a frying pan, A pan that cools ever so slowly. Waiting is all that is done by man, The barred clouds unfold ever so slowly, Giving one golden ray of sunshine. A blinding light appearing in a glamorous fashion. A ray temporary yet pl
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A Creature of Wood

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 A Creature of Wood It has a beautifully long neck, That speaks anything from happiness to regret. A beautiful set of frets, That win any number of bets. It has six marvelous roads, Each with different loads, This road leads to a powerful bridge, A bridge with the power of moving a ridge.  A guitar this creature is, A creature of pure bliss, It absorbs your troubles and burdens, The guitar does this in tones. A creature that truly makes humans humane, And yet makes everything a little less mundane. A creature that tells us a story, That can be either happy or wailful or gory. It gives meaning, No matter how demeaning, It gives us power, Over a land of mystic and adventure. We go to a foreign yet familiar land where logic fails, And everything sings and talks, This is the land where the sun sails, And moon walks.
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These Times

 These Times Everyday I wake up to the same sound, This alarm of mine that has me bound, Bound to a place to go, Where people 'grow'! These people are there at the same time not, They have come to get their lot. These people don't want to come, Yet they come and sit numb. Online school this place is, A place where nothing ever goes amiss. A place where knowledge is bliss, A place that is now that is hard to miss. This is almost like a land of magic, It transports peoples essence if not their logic. A place the virus is not considered a hoax, A place where the sun sails and moon walks. "Both read the bible day and night, One sees black while I see white." This new life is a bane and boon, It is like a sky without a moon. My gaze now travels to the window, I see a willow, A willow lush with water droplets, A willow who can rise higher than a thousand goblets.
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No Other Choice...

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 No Other Choice... Their lies a man is the deep of the villages, A man that prevents a child's spoilage. A man who sneaks in the middle of night, Without the slightest hints of a fright. A man who once lives in a destitute cottage, That looks rather vintage. A man that sneaks in the middle of night, When t he tide reaches to its maximum height. He travels to a city close, The street without light seemed morose. As he walked he felt the aura of great pain, He crawled in a window trying to abstain. The house looked like a palace, Anything looked like that in comparison to his place, His house was greatly damp and clammy, This house was a millionaire's fancy. He gathered what he could, He ran out and put on a hood. He reached his home and counted his booty, He saw the pain in that beauty. Sleep constantly eluded him, Reminding him of his greedy aim. He finally slept and yet worried about his timeshare, More and more did they come, his nightmares. "But why must I fear, I have
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Winter

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Winter A season of wisdom, A season of the harsh cold. What mysterious it unfolds, It is line between end and beginning! A story is complete, Death everyone is to meet. What he holds they fear, When he hails they know their end is near. The old sit comfortably, And listen, ever so feebly, The sounds of the wind chime, And feel the passing time.  They sit comfortably, And feel, ever so calmly, Their essence fading, And their soul leaving. They sit comfortably, And see, ever so carefully, Their last memories of immense joy, And begin to feel coy. They sit comfortably, And taste, ever so gently, The sweetness of rest, The taste it at their best. They sit comfortably, And smell, ever so faintly, The smell of the end, And they begin to feel time bend. They are awoken in a joyful place, For this is an altruistic space. A place were people are equal and tend to have talks, This is the land where the sun sails and moon walks!
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A Prisoners Thoughts

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A Prisoners Thoughts Listening to the warden, Days passing by with silence at its golden. Talking about being tethered, About how none cares about the caged bird's feather. Agreeing to disagree, Does not make a person free. Being forced to be in a cage, Is like a curse cast by a mage. Seeing our own life and other's rot, Seeing what we deserved and got, Breaks the soul of the commonwealth. This makes people writhe in their on filth. We will always be toads, In comparison to the demons that walk our roads, Even if we are engulfed by death, they shall return, They will guffaw and dance with our urn.
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