Words expressed are mainly for the self. That part of us all that
just wants to understand the why of our existence. Sometimes, the
self doen't even care to know the real self-evident truth and
decides to live a life in an enclosed fantasy no one else knows
about.

What ever the reasons, other's may never fully understand, but as a
writer ... we do, and in the long run that is all that matters.

This piece though, everyone should understand. The point that not
all of life is happy and lovely, free and spirited. Now, for the
record, no, I'm not contemplating suicide or death, but the eye that
holds my other mind sees things when I write, just as I do in my
stories. If you ever travel to my 360 blog, you will see things I
have written that has never been worked on a second time (though now
and then I do, as my fingers sometimes work faster than my brain,
hence silly typos).

When Your Dead and Gone

It isn't angels and clouds,
you don't walk through walls
and you don't burn in hell.
I know. I have been there.

It was a bursting light
that drew me in
to a place that has no name.
A place beyond realness,
too strange to be a fantasy.

A place where colors aren't colors.
Where squares are round,
triangles are straight lines.
Heaven is black, hell is white,
and your feet never touch ground.
You are running and walking
but never moving
as this place passes you by.
I call it the waiting room,
to either or.

This place is your time and space,
and sound is dead, like you.
No friendly faces to greet you.
You cannot hear your thoughts,
cannot hear your screams,
cannot feel your tears,
until pulled back through the bursting light.

Yo sense your sweat,
somewhere a heart thunders heavy,
and you know when you die again;
it isn't angels and clouds.

It is a place where death,
knows no peace.