There they are, those blackhearted ghouls. They're still circling, high above me, while I drown. Just a bloated mass of fishy flesh, they squirm and wiggle their way through the now-turbid water, searching for me. I must be nothing, an insignificant speck in comparison, for they cannot see me. We are still conversing, a jaunty, but simultaneously deadly conversation. One verbal mis-step and Davey Jones will have to share his already-cramped apartment with yet another unwelcome visitor. I'm swimming towards the surface now, careful to aim my body so that I can slip past these massive fishes, these carnivores of the mind. I come dangerously close to one, so close that I can see those over-sized scales, those massive teeth, those big, blubbery, foolish lips. Still, he is distracted by my conversation, and I escape to the surface, madly scrambling onto the feeble land, hoping they will not see my exit. Others around me look down and say "my those are some big fish."

"You have no idea."

May my life create one winking flame,
To which my values and my morals be attached,
So that when I am nought but a name,
Some meaning to that name may be mismatched.

May my soul be quintessential truth,
Let no-one cloud my reason or my thought,
When reflecting on my history uncouth,
My philosophy will reflect what it ought.

May my rewards be all they're meant to be,
Let others see the gold rainbowing down,
And selfish desires no longer roam free,
While kingliness is knighted with a crown.

Too much to hope will henceforth be realized,
So I shall retire as my world is trivialized.

Expression through the written word is difficult today,
Why I can sing but cannot write my thoughts I cannot say,
Despite this all I will attempt some layman's easy prose,
Although it may feel awkward, like an unkempt, greasy rose.

First I feel strong hatred, burning lustfully inside,
My soul finds fault with competition, but it can't decide,
Do I stay within the circle, pompous as can be,
Of friends and foes, and trouble those, who turn and spit on me.

I've always loved a challenge, like our friendship (that's for sure),
But shouldn't friends tie up loose ends, instead of knotting more?
And should we not cease and desist, when granted easy truce,
Instead of gnawing in our bellies, twixt farce, facade, and ruse?

"But friend!" you cry, "Why fly when I am confident in soaring?"
"And other friends, who tie up ends, are quite often boring,"
So I sigh and kneel again, and feel the tongue-lash fall,
And wonder, through the pain, if I returned my mother's call.

Other things have come to mind, so I'll continue my digression,
On efficient social puppets 'midst political recession,
Of why a man is deified, enthroned by godly dress,
While crowds will follow his commands, morals all a-mess.

It rarely seems that I can dream of the logical thing to do,
And wake to find I'm far behind, for others think it too,
And I would rejoice, and raise my voice, if all the world would sing,
Of love and peace, of elbow grease, of avoiding lewd flings.

I find it hard to find a friend so open as to say,
That they don't mind that I can find a more efficient way,
If they gave to me all the room to be what I was meant to,
That friend would be the avatar of who I would relent to.

Unfortunately, as you can see, I've stopped being concise
So I'll conclude, just don't be rude, I don't write verses twice,
When you arise and don your clothes, ascending God's own stairway,
Be sure you don't neglect all those who chose to act the fair way.

This is a strange euphoria,
That would turn a man to butter,
That transforms a woman from an angel,
To something greater.

How is it then that I,
Feel this thing many a time,
Including with those who I despise,
I don't realize?

It was just a stab.

Right.

Just a knife between the ribs.

Just a series of serrated cutlery slowly drawn through my body, rending flesh from flesh in a torrent of blood and gory horror.

Just a stab.

Only a little knick in the heart, the bleeding can be staunched.

Just apply pressure.

Even the tiniest blood clot can be lethal, even the deadliest poison can be cured, and even the sweetest voice can destroy a man.

Oh that candy-coated, sugar-plum'd voice. I have gravitated to it, like a child to the tall glass jar of licorice, though he can only have one taste.

And I can't afford the dime.