He is the dark from which evil draws inspiration

Became the dark, did he at last
And ransomed hope for power
While clung the mate to his mast

The crew low and wayward asked
What to make of this ghostly hour
Became the dark, did he at last

The mate cried to crew, hold fast!
And the shaky men threw fit and cower’d
While clung the mate to his mast

The ocean roared like storms of past
And rose the water to mighty tower
Became the dark, did he at last

The blue did churn as far and vast
As his sunken eyes could scour
While clung the mate to his mast

Marvel did he, at his wayward cast
While the ocean spray did mist a shower
Consumed by dark, was he at last
While clung the mate to his mast

Breathe

Should I keep writing?
I mean, I’ve never really made any money at it.
No one’s ever told me that something I wrote changed their life.
Or even changed their day.
Or changed anything at all.
Should I keep singing?
I mean I’ve never made any money at it.
No one’s ever told me that a song of mine made them pause and think.
Or inspired them to move.
Or inspired them at all.
Should I keep breathing?
I mean I’ve never been someone who makes things happen.
No one’s ever told me that I am confident.
Or seem driven.
Or drive women wild.
Should I keep going?
I mean, this list is starting to sound monotonous.
No one wants to hear you complain.
Or write or sing.

Or breathe.

Polaroid

Remember that time you fell?
I hated you then,
Mostly because you cried.

Remember what those summers tasted like?
I sure do.
You probably forget by now.

Remember mom?
You know, before the death?
Me too.

Remember dad?
Back when he had morals?
Me neither.

Remember when I wept at your side?
You were asleep.
With tubes down your throat.

Remember when I was sorry?
I really was.
Hope you noticed.