Day by day, I am haunted by you Marianne. Why haven’t you comeback after the endless years of torture you gave me. Our vows were death till us part but even though they told me you were dead, I believe not. To keep me sane I was told to write poems about our life, my life. It is vocally unusual that I must also read aloud my poems to a cat by the name, “Mittens.” But, even with the queer sense of reciting my poems I think the cat as you. You are not dead as you are hiding. I am nothing more than a loss man in an endless maze. And even if the doctors, therapist, and family members think I am insane; I will prove them all wrong. I will write these poems to resurrect you from your hidden status and I will grasp your hand so firmly your departure will never be left unnoticed. I am waiting for you.

The notebook is casted on my desk in which is divinely placed right in the center. Entries in my notebook were always grim. None of these poems have happiness only hell. If there was a hint of kindness in them it would be torn and casted away in a garbage can and I will stab my hands with a fork (they wouldn’t allow me to have knifes in my house.) I will read to the cat now like a common day would go in this hellish world:

Away with the Morning

Yawn in the early day,
I am alone and feeling gray.
The color of dismay,
Shall be left singular as well, today.
Walk.
Walk.
Walk.
Walk the endless streets so fine,
As I will one day I shall fall and die.
Walk.
Walk.
Walk no more.
As I now lay dead,
Not living anymore.

The child with no heart
Ye who shares no heart,
Shall the he feel a fatal depart?
Born from Satan the girl was made,
She had neither hair nor a brain.
She does not talk at any time or day.
And is alone and cast away.
She cannot do much in her life other than feel pain,
And as her life continues more suffering will arrive to her and
Drain.
Drain.
Drain her body to a single grain.
And as the people continue to complain,
She will be alone in shame.
The girl nameless and in distress,
Finally ends her life with no holy blesses.
As now she dangles above the peoples heads,
Hanged and finally feeling… Dead.

The cat licked its fuzzed fur and meowed mockingly towards I. I closed my notebook thinking about my fatal thoughts. Doctor Ester, my doctor, has read many of my entries and with his hand scratching his head he said, “Interesting.” His fake words were easy to examine as I remember how I yelled and cursed at his annoyance. I had no time to be put in some foolish program. I had to find my wife! But they kept telling me she was dead. I know she is alive. And I don’t give a damn in the world if everyone thinks she is dead. I put the book back in its sacred pedestal. Right in the center of the desk.

It was an ominous night. I hate the dark sky and how it shades the world in darkness. My wife had a disturbance of the night. She fell asleep before nightfall. I would have to then convince her to come out from the sheets on our bed and eat dinner but she would ignore and she would struggle back in her quilt. I pity her only for that. It was that major phobia that killed many options in her life. And if she hated the night than I hated it too. Yet, if it wasn’t for night some instances wouldn’t occur. Like our relationship.

I met Marianne in a motel centre. The motel was locking up and I was coming back from France to go back to my hometown in Georgia. Until, a woman was rushing to her room and seemed to have gone nuts over an ordeal. Yet, I wasn’t turned on by her lush looks but her simple humor. I walked to her asking her, “Is there a problem, ma’am.” She just stared at me and said, “Much. I hate the nighttime. And I get really scared of it. I had this phobia since I was seven-years-old. It just haunts me.” I laughed and thought how anyone could get so insecure and so I kindly picked up her luggage and said, “Well, I know you’re going to need someone to help you through the night.” She blushed and replied, “If that is scenario then I guess I wouldn’t mind your assistance.” We enter her petite motel room and I met her in first-hand.

I return to the night filled room open my notebook and wrote my 34th poem:

When she hollers we must speak

You must listen when she yells,
And whenever I ignore,
She bursts and rebels,
As now she bellows in vile gore.
Fight you must you will lose,
Queen or wife alike,
She is the geese you are the goose,
Time in time you will be tumbled in spite.
Death till us part,
Yet all she cares is to leave.
I love her and will be her guard,
But now I am put at ease.
She left me, she left me.
And now I am alone.
She left me, she left me.
I am now fully grown…

The cat gave a prone face as she moved back into her comfortable bed. I looked at the cat pondering its physical purpose in my household. An animal has been a mere object to my brilliance of a wife. Marianne cannot be related to some animal. Yet, all I can do is stare with an utter most frown at the small creature and soon I went to the cup boards and took an out the cat food. I plucked the lid off the can and poor the food in the cats bowl. Walking slowly behind me was the timid cat. It licked the bowl and soon nipped at the food.

I had to be put into many recovery programs to keep me sane. I am not insane and even my protégé, who also worked for me, at the observatory had said I was completely fine. My occupation was a scientist researching on potential answers on unsolved bases in astronomy. Particularly, black holes and dark matter and even my protégé, Alex, became very bleak on each concept. I couldn’t pity him as I paid him for his duties. But, I question today how he is doing without my pay. Really I wonder how everyone is doing now I am put under surveillance. I am lonely and I feel more that I was put on house arrest than put on a recovery program. But as long as I write poems and my little friend is around I could get this over.

I was now accompanied with a new friend. His name is Frank. He was my therapist and now my roommate. He said to me as long as I am now with you, we can have a more persona understanding of your internal life. I laughed and thought you took my life. Frank was now having a seat with me at the breakfast table. I was in my room writing poems:


Being Civil

It may be stupid to become confuse,
Right or wrong it is the things we do.
If one is mean I cannot comply,
The things I will say or reply.
The world can be a hard place,
But it is us that we embrace.
People are not birds or planes,
It is not wrong to yell or complain.
We can be holy with also joy,
But remember life cannot always be enjoyed.

Frank enters my room unnoticed. I sighed momentarily as he asked jolly, “Christmas is coming. Some of your poems should contain fine holiday sprit.” I stared at him with a grim face but disregarding it he asked, “Can you read that poem you just wrote?” Sure! I thought to myself. After reading my poem ‘Being Civil’ he clapped giving a rather amazed face, “You write as if you did it for centuries. I am showing this to Mr. Hamilton.” The author that lived near our county was Mr. Hamilton who was a famous poet. If Frank could even manage to get near him and let the frigid man put his old fingers on my notebook he would die from the horrors of each poem within. I closed the notebook and hissed, “That will not be necessary, Mr. Newberry.” Frank said child-like, “Please!” I yawned and replied, “You have no clue of the things that are within this notebook. I have written poems that are so inflicted with hellish ordeals I have made sure this notebook is by my side. He gave up just after hearing my macabre tone.

I had a nightmare of my wife dead. Could I been wrong the whole time? My wife was totally healthy the last day I saw her and she never told me she had any disease. We never held secrets and we always talk about our personal conflicts. Mittens was on my desks tampering with my notebook. I didn’t interfere instead I watch the adoring animal try to open the book with her fluffy paws. Finally having another idea to write into a poem, I walked to my desk sitting on the fabric patted chair. The cat fell into my lap and I open the notebook as I began writing another poem:


You are not!

You are not the healer you say you are,
I am just a victim that you have tarred.
If I must count your pointless plans,
It will rise above the hills of sands!
Making me write as much I do,
I must now write one on you!
I am bewitched from your horrible acts!
Even at skill you even lack.
This is enough I am done with you,
Making me write as much as I do.

Flinging the pen across the desk on the floor. The cat pounce off my lap and fetched the pen from the floor and drop it below my knees. I had seen my angry on this paper and spoke to the cat, “Is this anger? Is this what I have done to my friends and family?” I had seen the paper and my notebook writings and the cat just meowed. I was petrified at the multiple poems I had made. That was me writing them, I thought. And soon I heard from the back of my head, that’s right! I it was you Lloyd. You left me and I am alone. But now that I am with you again we can be together….

The voice choked me in fear and I screamed. No one was in the house as Frank had gone to get groceries. But there had to be something that made the voices. I stared bewildered at the harmless cat. I was insane for the cat was the voice. Thus, I had to rid of it. I had grabbed the creature from the floor and tossed to the wall. Terrified the cat scurried away as I didn’t chased it but sat back onto my seat. And soon stared into my notebook and read the first poem:






The Devil in my Poem

Dark in its ways,
I am afraid.
Of how the world spins,
And not sways.
I am scared and not sane,
For my life is being crush by a crane.
Become weary of its eyes,
I am now insane.
I am horrified of your glance,
You move around and dance.
You will not stop at any point of time,
To keep killing me with your lance.
The words I write,
Become bleak and blithe.
So the paper bends,
And the pencil loses life.
My life is implied by a devil,
And there is no crystal sigil.
There is no beautiful glory,
As my poem is in internal signal.
I am about to lose the most dearest thing,
Yet, still the daily blue bird sings.
Dare the world shall end?
I am still inflicted by this devilish something?
I have no reason to live or own,
As I lost the world and I am out of thy zone.
So now I c*** the gun,
As this is the final bullet that I have blown.

I gazed at the first poem I wrote. Was the devil in me? I had caused pain and issued horror to many. All because of my wife whom I love. Love? Is loving a bad thing.

Returning to my feet was the cat acting as if I never harmed it. It meowed in solace seeing my resolved state. I sank into the same fabric chair, in the same room and cried. I began to feel horrible and then I saw Frank coming inside. He set down the groceries and went to me patting my back and said, “It is time for to move on.” I gazed at the cat that was playing with the mouse toy and saw its playful state. I had been thinking an animal was my wife! “When is Marianne’s Funeral?” I asked Frank frantically, he said bitterly, “It has already passed. She was given the proper burial she asked in her will. Casted into the ground below.” I bashed my fit on the desk and grabbed my book. Frank was trailing behind questioning me like a fly, “Where you going? Why do you have your notebook with you?” Ignoring I existed my house for the first time for months. I had broken free from this stupid program and I had marched to my car and entered it. Banging on my side window Frank pleads, “You mustn’t leave your house Mr. Johnson! You have been put under our programs watch.” I pulled out of the house garage and scanned the cities streets to find the cemetery.