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.