Invisible Ink

When you go to sleep,
What is it that you see,
Can you see a past life,
Do you see the now,
Or do you see the black,
The same black that dwells within me?

Do you bother to see,
Past the illusion,
The world around you?
When I dream, I see just the black,
And the people who see me say I dream big,
But I respond with a grin,
Why dream in this life,
If you truly live like you were free,
Then you dreams would be a reality,
Not just thoughts written in disappearing ink.

Listen not to what anyone says,
Do and be what you feel is right,
Why listen to the rules,
Written in invisible ink,
Dream in the blackness,
For any dream is a reality,
In a world where you are truly free.

The invisible ink writes away,
Making “laws”, saying you must obey,
But why listen to these,
These invisible chains try to hold you,
But imaginary chains are nothing,
Especially when drawn in invisible ink.

The Last Romantic

In the deep of the blue sea,
In the falling leaves of autumn,
Even in the darkest dreams,
Or the happiest clouds,
I have never been as any other I have seen.

People say I am freakishly odd,
People say I try too hard,
People don’t know what it is like to be me,
For I say that I am the last,
The Last of my blood, the last of my mind,
I believe I am the last,
The last true Romantic.

I have the mentality,
I have the strength,
I have the flowing tongue,
And I leave it up to me,
For once again I am proud to say,
I am the last,
The last one to see the way I have seen.

The last of a race, the last of a religion,
The last of a people, the last of the blood,
Being a Romantic is more than being a person;
It is being a person who chooses his own fate.

In the darkest corner of my mind,
I sit and wonder why my kind?
Could it not have been someone else?
Why must I prove myself?
The whispers of trees the dying wind,
They sing to me, they call to me,
I hear the voices of anguish,
The maddening cries of the beasts.
Am I the only one who sees it?
Why am I hiding inside?

Why MUST I hide myself,
Why MUST I agree,
Why MUST you see and call me a freak?
I live in a world, where the flowing words are ignored,
A world where anything is possible,
But then what happened to my sword?
It’s ink is invisible if you can ignore it,
For my words scar worse than a two edged sword,
My arms are gone, my liberty taken,
My pen’s ink is erased,
My tongue’s words deleted,
My works burned,
My thoughts freakish.

If this is what it means to be a Romantic,
Then I bear the burden proudly.
But when I find another like me,
Then I won’t feel so alone,
My children after,
My kin before.
I don’t plan to teach them at all,
For a Romantic finds his own path.

For me, I have not seen,
Another like me; I have not been convinced,
Why are you gothic?
Do you even know what it means?
Do you understand the thoughts?
It is more than wearing black,
Its having a belief, a belief to the extreme.
A Gothic isn’t someone misunderstood,
A Gothic is a Romantic with a grim look.
The fury inside me cannot leave,
But then, I guess without rage,
Who would I be? My pen would write on a blank page.
For leaving it blank would be a waste.
And now you call me strange,
But what if you felt you were the last of your race?

Censor me if you like,
My beliefs will live on.
In my blood flowing over ground,
I’ll have the plants absorb my fate,
And maybe they’ll live to see
Another Romantic
Face to face.

Future in the Past

I envision myself as an adult.
My mind sees with new found eyes.
I am free to feel.
I think with wisdom.
These aspects do not make me advanced,
For I have already lived, died, and now I am reborn.

I see the world.
It’s rotting flesh.
Industry you call it,
I call it murder.
You see faster,
I see poison.
You see a better life,
I see death of natural beauty.

I feel acutely attuned with nature.
I share the feelings of the trees, soil, and water.
I feel their anger, pain, and suffering.
People kill the trees, the forest, for buildings,
While I watch them grow.
When people clear entire forests and pave roads,
I stand in the forests, listening to nature.
When the bitter harshness of winter comes,
When summer breathes down on us,
When spring floods us,
And fall burdens us,
Remember, society brought this from the day we were first brought forth.

I think Nature itself is alive.
I think that we kill ourselves by our daily choices.
We pollute our air,
Our water
And our minds with 'scientific advancement'.

I want but one thing in life,
I want to life to be pure again.
I want horses not cars,
Swords, not guns,
Arrows, not cannons.
I want days of old,
I want to be in a miniature medieval times,
No matter how brief,
I want, no I need,
To see, live, touch the days of old,
For our future lies in our past.

The only way to purify the now is to die.
We must die and be reborn.
This generation is unable to think about the harm we are doing to our world.
How many people reach for words, not weapons?
How many will help a stranger, give him a hand, take him in?
How many people will take all they can?
There lies the problem.
Hardly anyone helps anyone but themselves,
But the few who do help others are robbed by the gluttonous ones,
And then the gluttons don’t pass on the favor previously bestowed upon them.

We, as one race, as one species,
Have created a bog so thick we can’t see out actions be paid for.
We don’t know the word ‘honor’ or ‘loyalty’ anymore.
We have essentially died,
But who will choose to rise again?