How cruel that I stammer over words
  when written by someone else… that
  my mind cannot accept a logical progression
  of ideas and emotions.

But that I write my own… then, ah then
  I can dance with the language… I can
  play with it like a father tossing a ball
  lovingly to his son… a mother teaching
  a daughter the beauties of a changing
  form… a moment of grace before my eyes.

Still, perhaps my words only mean something
  to me, for I understand my fractured
  sentences… my thought patterns… my
  lack of purpose…
  but to live and breathe in the now like a child
  writing his first word in crayon. 

i feel that i need a new language
  as this one no longer serves me.
it confuses me and angers me to
  no end with its failure to mean
  anything beyond the mundane.
  there is no power but to say
  ’power’.  no passion… for such
  a word remains limited by a twenty-
  six link chain attached to a
  weighted ball.

i’ve thought of studying various
  other languages, though i
  fear in the end, that i would
  ultimately feel the same about
  them as well.

what i need is to create my
  very own language, complete
  with characters so profound
  in their meaning that words
  would drip with emotion. 
  context and tonality would be
  easily felt from the page, and to
  speak it would bring tears to
  one’s eyes.

such a thing would be beautiful
  indeed… though i fear i may
  jealously guard this language
  that it not be destroyed by
  simple-minded folks… the likes
  of which are currently destroying
  the English language.

and so it would be that only
  i would revel in this new tongue.
it would be lonely, no doubt.
though perhaps within i would
  still find serenity.

would that she’d slain
    them… I’d not have to
  continue her work…
        I’d see colors as
 they are meant to
   be seen…
                    rather than vibrant assaults.
I’d breathe lightly
        rather than engulfing
  enough air to last…
      should my soul be
  stripped from this world
                              and sent to a
      desolate hell.

although perhaps I’d
          find her there waiting
    for me… and we
       could have tea like
 we used to…

                ...        before the demons return.

“colder...” was all it whispered,
  its voice as soft as a child,
  its intent as powerful as
  its being.
i struggled with my passions,
  with my life and with
  my choices.

“colder...”

“i can no longer play this
  game.” i spoke finally,
  removing the veil from
  before my eyes.

and the world appeared…
my steps behind me…
and a path off in the distance…

cold and confused, i attempted
  to continue. 

I sit on the dune looking
out over the dark empty
beach.

It is as if this is a separate
world from the one I know,
a place filled with only the
sand, the sea and the sky. 

The moon reflects off the
foamy tips of the waves
as they make their lonely
sojourn to the shore
The jetties stand with open
arms, welcoming the incoming
tide.

The seagulls and sandpipers
have all gone for the night. 
The beach is still but for the
rhythmic roar of the breaking
waves, and the soft swish that
follows as they make their final
push to the beach.

The wind is light, barely moving
the soft clouds, drifting in waves
before the blinking moon.  A
breeze just enough to make me
shiver and pull my jacket tighter
around myself.

“this is your voice.” it says.

my mind rattles and
  my eyes shift this
  way and that in the
  kind of way that cartoon
  characters do when trying
  to demonstrate to very small
  children that danger (albeit the
  safe kind) is close at hand.

but this is my voice.  the one
  that i’m using right now to
  speak and i know what i
  sound like and it’s not you.

“fine.” it says with a long drawn
  out sigh.  “this is your other
  voice.”

well now, why didn’t you
  just say so.

a long pause ensues and
  i wonder if i’ve done gone
  and pissed off my other
  voice.
he doesn’t like to be mocked
  and frankly, i don’t quite
  like it when he’s angry with
  me cause then he starts
  singing old country songs
  and it drives me insane.

sorry.  what’s up?

slowly, like a madness
  onto a man,
  confusion blinds…
  makes one swallow
  less effectively…
  makes one indecisive…
  it forces neglect.
days age, becoming years
  and lifetimes till
  finally one looks
  back wondering
  why.
answers are meaningless,
  despite the fact that
  such questions keep
  us from dying
  peacefully.

she walked with feet pointed
  slightly inward, her knees
  angled like those of a
  veteran linebacker who’s
  been struck too many times.
her small frame was solid and
  secure upon this land.
  her hands held a purse
  tightly, though from
  behind, i could not see
  distrust.
still, i could sense it in her
  shoulders… in the
  reflection of a stare
  through a shopkeep
  window… in a sigh at
  a corner, as she waited
  impatiently for a light
  to change… that she may
  walk away from me.