So This iS Madness

Confusion sets in, madness it is called.

But how our mind starts to act on its own,

Something like a drum sounding in the cold.

We wait for something just to us be shown.

The downfall of our life cannot be now.

We might try to say that we are to young,

‘Cause of our experience is not how.

iF gone, our life by a thread would be hung.

Responsibilities of ours are great.

All too great in fact to leave such a place

We cannot leave a place without this hate

Our exit must be later and with grace.

We have not been given une chance comme ca.

Mais nous pouvons voir que nous aurons la. 

The Story Beneath Cinderella Speaks

       She said she was leaving here, going away and leaving me wanting more. I’ve never truly been the best, or been the one to answer life’s questions correctly, but I never thought that was reason for her to leave. She said maybe, maybe one day she will return, find me and complete me once more. She just needed time away from me to think of what I'd done.

When we met, nearly a year ago, I believed I was blessed, having someone so good in my life that always seemed so wrong. Madly in love, we were married in a month, despite her father’s persistent word of warning. It was mid-July and pleasantly warm, even though it was pouring rain outside the church. Every time we kissed that night, it felt as though time had slowed, and sometimes stopped altogether. I told her I needed her, for I loved her so much. I was so happy, yet so scared. What would happen, if she were to leave? What would that mean for me?

January.

“What does your father mean?” I begged her for an answer after a long and uncomfortable dinner with her rich father. Her father and I had never gotten along, as was expected between a wealthy man and a working man. “Why would you need a new start, aren’t you happy here?”

“Sweetheart, look at me,” I didn’t, I couldn't bear the thought of her father ripping the two of us apart. “Darling, please,” I looked, “Please calm down,” she tried to settle my reeling mind with small words and pleas. When that didn’t work, she said, “Darling I’m not going.” That got me to settle down, at least most of the way.

“But your father. Won’t he be mad?” I asked her, not needing the answer. “He is quite convinced you are joining him.”

“My father needs to accept you,” She pulled me close, so close that I could feel her warm, sweet breath on my cheek, bringing back memories of our beautiful night following our wedding ceremony. I could feel her almond eyes on mine, peering into my soul and capturing my mind. I could feel her breathing, her bosom rising and falling to the rhythm of her breath. Her beauty mesmerized me, baffled me. “I am yours, forever, and I don’t care whether or not my father has a problem with that.” Do you mean that, I meant to ask her - but then I thought, Of course she means it, she loves me.

“Thank you,” I smiled at her, completely relaxed.

April.

My splendid marriage began to go south in my lovely little home in Southampton the day I heard a knock on my door, and my mistake was answering it. As I got up off of my wooden chair, the knock came again, rapping violently on the front of the house. Persistent bastard, I thought, as the knock came again. It happened twice more in my walk from the dining room to the front door two rooms away, making me think this man must be a deliverer of bad news, had she been in an accident? I ran to the door, fearing this man and what he came for more than I feared death. 

As I grabbed the doorknob, the ball of metal seemed to drop temperature to that of ice in my palm, a bad omen. I pulled the door quickly open to reveal this deliverer. “Hello son,” Her wealthy, hating, spiteful father said, shooting more ice than the metal in my palm, “May I come in, or have I lost that privilege to you as well as my daughter?”

“She’s not here,” I spat in return, avoiding his question on purpose, “But I would be ... happy ... to let her know that you stopped by, completely unannounced, may I add.”

“Yes, you may add that,” said he as he walked in my door, as though he took my lack of an answer as a conformation, “And as wonderful as that would be, I came here to speak with you, not your lovely wife.” A smile started to spread across his face, not a happy expression, or even neutral; the man was taunting me with his smug smile on his rich face. I had to put my hands in my pockets to keep from smacking that grin right off of him.

“Whatever you have to say,” I said, repaying him with a grueling sneer, “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Ah yes, I expected that.” I wanted to bury him. He hadn’t done anything overly offensive since he’d gotten here, but his mere presence made me foaming mad. “However, for this I believe you will make an exception. What I came to tell you is very important.”

“What is it then? Really, what is so important you had to come here unannounced?”

“She is coming with me and you cannot stop her.”

“No, she told me she is staying with me here,” he’s lying, I told myself, he has to be. “I’m sorry you came all the way down here to be so disappointed.”

“I am afraid you are mistaken. I am her father, and my word is law,” He grinned again, but this time showing perfectly white teeth.

“Well I am her husband and she doesn’t lie to me!” I screamed, spitting on his blazer.

“But doesn’t she? I’m terribly sorry to tell you this but your marriage was a sham.” The words came out like he was saying the sky was blue, as-a-matter-of-fact. “She never loved you.”

I heard a crack and saw him fall, spitting blood. I saw hands grab him by the lapels and heard three more consecutive cracks. I felt a pain rise in my knuckles and a scream rise in my ears. Was it mine? Was it his? No, it was hers. I looked up and saw her staring, screaming and sobbing. “No!” She cried, “Please stop!”

I realized the hands on his lapels were mine, and the blood on my hands and on the floor was his. I dropped him. He just fell. I heard one last, deafening sound. It was his head hitting the wood floor. 

She said she was leaving here, going away and leaving me wanting more. I’ve never truly been the best, or been the one to answer life’s questions correctly, but I never thought that was reason for her to leave. I walked her to her ship, a giant boat, and looked into her eyes. She said maybe, maybe one day she will return, find me and complete me once more. I said no, she won’t return. I could feel it, sense it in my heart. I kissed her and held her tight. I felt as though days passed, years maybe. "Don't go," said I, "I can't do this on my own."
     "I'm sorry," she replied, "I feel like if we try to get closer we will only lose touch." She left me with those words ringing in my ears. I wanted to scream out to her, to yell that I love her, but I just watched her walk away, boarding with her bandaged father. Maybe someday, even if she doesn’t return, she could come to terms with my actions. I noted the date and time, I didn't know why I did it, it just seemed right.

I wrote down: ‘April 10th, 1912. Noon.’ I then watched as the Titanic drifted away.

Cinderella Speaks

Do not take this from me.
You do not want me that mad.
All you want is to set me free.
You cannot do that when i'm sad.
The best way to set me free
is to let me go.
You have to let me be.
You have to know.
iT's all part of the same fight.
iT's all pieces of the same shine.
All pieces have their own might. 
Just let me go, i'll be fine.


A new wind is blowing.
A change we all knew was to come.
i Can tell you who now is showing,
i Would but they look so glum.
iT's the way i am
To differ from the rest.
i Am the water on the wrong side of the dam.
i Know how, but i have'nt passed the test.
Oh, how i wish you were here.
Your empty space is saddening.
i Scream for you from beyond the pier.
Your lack of an answer is maddening.


You have made my mind,
You change it all the time.
Your words, always so kind.
With my lack of speech, i can only mime.
i'M sorry i cannot be my best,
But for tham i have little respect.
i'M sorry i cannot pass the test,
But for that there is no retrospect.
Making sense is beyond me,
Like my screams which are past the pier.
iT's the nonsense that makes us free,
But you've made it, you've made it here.

Why, This is Just Nonsense

Johnson Macmillan was having a very odd day. Not so odd that he found himself doubting reality, but just enough so he couldn't take his mind off of it. His day started out with the radio playing a song at exactly five thirty in the morning, just like every day. Afterwards, like every day, he came downstairs to make a warm cup of breakfast tea and read the newspaper. However on this particular morning his tea tasted off and he found he couldn’t quite focus on the news because of it. Setting it down for later, he took a brief shower and left his small one bedroom flat one half hour early. As he walked out his door he grabbed his driving cap and placed it comfortably on his head, and as he left the building he bid a good morning to a bellman that he’d never met before.

Johnson climbed into his 1948 Series 75 Fleetwood Cadillac and started the engine. The drive took much longer than he remembered, but Johnson made sure he did not take any wrong turn or get lost in thought like he may have wanted to. The length must have just been my imagination, he told himself. Over and over he kept thinking of the tea, he had made it just as he normally does, two sugars and a dash of cream after steeping for three minutes, but it tasted just wrong. More like ashes than tea, he thought. 

Johnson parked in his usual parking space, but as he got out of the car and locked it, he found himself staring at a sign that read, DR. JOHNSON MACMILLAN, and in smaller letters under it, PHYSICIAN, which he had never seen or even heard of before. Johnson made a brief excuse that may have sounded like, I just must not have gotten the notice, or rather if you were next to him, all you would have heard was mumbling, as the statement was more for Johnson than anyone else. 

Dr. Macmillan, as he always thought of himself in the hospital, walked into the lobby, where a voice from behind him said, Dr. Johnson, I am afraid you are an hour early. Which made no sense to Johnson, as he thought he would be arriving on time due to how long the drive took him added to the full half hour early that he left his flat.

Yes, Johnson said as he turned to see the person speaking to him, I awoke before my alarm. The person, or rather woman, who announced his arrival seemed quite familiar, but she was sitting behind a desk that was very unfamiliar. Typically, when he would walk into the hospital, Johnson would look left to a sitting area for patients and right to a polished wooden desk with a receptionist waiting behind it to clock Johnson in. The receptionist was a man named Gerald. However, this woman was sitting behind a stone and tile desk and her name was most definitely not Gerald. Johnson was beginning to become very upset, not even over the woman or the desk, but over the fact that the desk was behind him and to his left and there was no sitting area at all, also he had been in the building until eleven o'clock last night and there had been no time for such drastic renovations.

What time was I supposed to start? Johnson asked, just for fun.

Well, that’s an odd question.

I’m having an odd day.

Why, 7:30 as usual.

Aha! Johnson exclaimed, I knew something was amiss! 

Taken aback, the woman, Samantha, looked frightened. By what do you mean, Johnson? But Johnson was no longer listening, he was thinking about the bellman, and more specifically, about his name-tag. It had read, Gerald. His previous bellman had been named Samuel. He was beginning to doubt coincidence. He was beginning to doubt his sanity. He was not, however, beginning to doubt reality, for Johnson knew he could tell a dream from the real thing.

I apologize for startling you, Johnson said, trying to sound as sane as possible, which made him only seem a little more insane, as I said, I am having an odd day.

I completely understand Dr. Macmillan, Samantha said, her voice slightly wavering. Would you like me to put you in as sick so you can relax at home?

That was an interesting question, Johnson had never used a sick day for anything other than being sick. Yes please, he said, that sounds wonderful.

Okay, you have a great rest of the day.

Johnson had a strange feeling in his stomach, like he was somewhere he wasn’t meant to be. He retained that feeling all the way to his building, where he opened the door and was greeted by Gerald, the bellman. He mumbled something that may have sounded like, Hello again... sick day... Have a nice day... thank you, I hope I feel better too. It may also have sounded like nonsense, but Johnson did not care.

Johnson Macmillan sat on his firm yet comfortable couch and did nothing all day. Only once or twice did he stand up, and only to make a bit of food or use the lavatory. At almost nine thirty in the evening, Johnson went to bed, thinking about his day of the ashy tea, wondering, had he not drank the tea, could he have focused on his news, and gone to work to find a normal hospital, just the way he left it? That night Johnson slept a deep dreamless sleep, and awoke to a song playing over the radio at exactly five thirty in the morning. He recognized the previous day as just a strange dream and made himself a cup of breakfast tea. A cup of tea that tasted all too much like ash.

Johnson Macmillan finished his tea, read his paper and left at the time he always used to leave. As he walked out his door he grabbed his driving cap and placed it comfortably on his head, and as he left the building he bid a good morning to Gerald, the bellman he had met many times before.

Where i'M From

The truth is in the words,
The words are in the paper.
'Does that make the paper the truth?'
        You ask yourself.
No.
No, the paper is just the vessel.
The words are the message.
The truth lies in you.
Therefore,
Your body is the paper, 
The vessel.
The truth lies in you.
You are the messenger.
You are the message.
You feel something stir deep inside you.
The truth maybe?
iT's longing to be free
From your body the shell.
The cage.
Or maybe it's the emotion, 
The longing inside you.
Nevertheless,
You love that feeling 
iT's the feeling that makes you,
That drives you.
That emotion,
iT's screaming at you.
"Run!" it yells.
"Run faster away from here!"
You begin to listen,
One foot before the next. 
Then you recall your roots,
That truth form which you came.
iT may not be the force that drives you,
That makes you.
But you stop.
You lower your head in prayer.
Please, you pray,
Please, return me home.