Part 1: Emotions and Philosophy
That Which Drives Us
Emotions—
The most powerful force.
Crazy, chaotic,
Passionate and radiant—
These are the things that drive us.
Would the world be rid of sin
If that passion were gone?
Would anything still be worth it?
The cries of a little girl,
A proud father smiling,
Relatives weeping as the casket descends.
The hero rising from ashes
To charge into a forgotten battlefield.
Crazy, chaotic,
Passionate and radiant—
Would anything matter?
Will we be remembered?
Or forgotten like a long-lost relic,
Collecting dust in a sunken pirate ship?
Emotions—
The most powerful force.
Crazy, chaotic,
Passionate and radiant—
These are the things that drive us.
Wars and rumors of wars.
Joyful, peaceful celebrations.
Famines and droughts.
Wedding bells ring
While fire sings, ravaging the forest.
Emotions drive us—
The most powerful force.
Behold He Cometh!
The sunlight fades.
Darkness stretches forth its decrepit hand,
Poisoning all its gnarled fingers brush.
From this pit, I can see no light—only darkness.
No light at the end of this tunnel.
Yet I see corpses shambling,
Wounds oozing, staining the ground.
Decayed faces wearing frightful smiles,
Gazing, peering into my soul.
Puppets manipulated by invisible puppeteers.
The herd follows without question.
I cry a muffled cry
As screams of agony pierce my ears.
Horrifying sounds reverberate off the walls of this old tomb.
Death chuckles
As his old friend Darkness takes hold of this weakened world,
Choking the very life from its residents.
All seem content to die,
Fake smiles painted on their faces.
The masses feel led to lie,
Pretending nothing is wrong.
This beautiful life is nothing but a crypt,
Disguised as a fiesta for the dead.
Darkness comes!
As I lay in my bed, there came a knocking.
Sweat upon my brow, I dare not see who's calling.
For I fear who may be visiting me.
Dreadful and overcome by fear, I try not to move—
I dare not make a sound!
For what seems an eternity, the knocking continued,
Consuming all of my thoughts.
It Came Knocking
Knock… knock… knock!
My heart flutters,
Pain shoots down my arm,
Yet I dare not move, for fear I may be heard.
Finally, when it felt as if my heart would explode from fright,
All was silent.
Yet the trauma was there.
Could they still be there?
I lay quietly,
Earnestly hoping to be alone.
Silence…
Then it came, as sudden as it had before!
Knock… knock… knock…
Growing louder and louder—
I didn't know what to do!
Sweating even heavier, I hide my face beneath the covers,
Hoping they would be my shield.
With a fury, I heard the front door fly open,
Sending things flying into the wall and floor in the next room.
Then—silence.
An eternity of silence…
I earnestly began praying,
Begging for protection,
Longing for my life!
Then it came.
Not a knock, but footsteps.
It started far off, then began to get closer and closer—
Heavy-footed steps,
As if boots made of pure iron struck my floor.
Step… step… step…
Then silence.
An eternity of silence.
It was at my door!
I could barely contain my sorrows
As anxiety gripped at my very soul!
Then it came:
Knock…
Knock…
On my bedroom door.
Part 2: Chronicles of my life
The Murderous Storm
One fateful night, as I lay in bed,
The wind began to scream.
It clawed at the bones of our old house,
Banging, battering—not a dream.
This was real.
Rain and hail fell like fists from the sky,
Pounding the roof overhead.
I clung to my mother, my heart racing,
Wrapped in the warmth of the love she spread.
Eyes squeezed shut—I couldn't look
At the war that raged outside.
The house groaned like a dying beast,
No longer a place to hide.
Thunder roared with violent pride,
Lightning flashed with blinding spite.
This was no passing summer storm—
It came to steal our peace that night.
Then—a crash! My sister screamed—
A sound that tore the air.
We ran, our feet and hearts in sync,
God, please let her still be there.
Her ceiling caved—just missed her bed,
Debris where she had lain.
We held her tight in shaking arms
And slipped down the hall in pain.
We had to flee—the house gave way,
Its frame began to split.
The kitchen groaned, then fell apart—
How much more could it commit?
Out into the rain we ran,
The storm still at our back.
But hand in hand, we carried on,
Alive, though under attack.
We found an old camper down the hill,
And huddled, soaked and shaking.
We whispered prayers through chattering teeth,
Every heartbeat aching.
By dawn, the storm had passed at last—
But nothing felt the same.
Our house was gone. Our world undone.
The storm had staked its claim.
It came that night to take our lives,
But found our home instead.
We lived—but something deep inside
Would never quite forget.
The Painting That Haunted Me
When I was just a child of five,
Too young to know what's dead or alive,
My father hung it on the wall—
The painting that would haunt me.
Two owls sat on a gnarled old tree,
With eyes too wide, too sharp to see.
The right one stared ahead, so still,
Forever bound, against its will.
But the left one turned its ghostly head,
And watched me as I lay in bed.
I'd hide beneath the cotton sheet,
Too scared to cry, too small to speak.
Its stare would burn behind my eyes,
As if it knew where terror lies.
I tried to tell my father so,
But he would only chuckle low:
"Oh why the bother, it's just a scene—
Just painted birds, not something mean.
It's just a painting, you silly thing.
Close your eyes and let sleep sing."
But I still saw it every night—
That turning head, those eyes too bright.
And now I'm grown, but still I see
That cursed old owl watching me.