Version 1

I walk a path I’ve known before,

Walls stained in time’s dim glow.

Black and white beneath my feet,

A checkered past I do not own.

The doors stand still, yet whisper soft,

Memories framed in silent gilt.

One hums with numbers, endless, cold,

Another weeps with hearts long wilted.

At the end, a door awaits—

Not strange, but far too known.

A shadow pools beneath its frame,

Darkness calling home.

Then—bang, bang, bang.

The echoes shake the hollow air.

A voice I know but cannot name

Crawls through the cracks, a desperate prayer.

“Open the door. Just open the door.”

“Why won’t you open? Don’t you trust me?”

“Just open it. Please—open it.”

Fingers twitch, but still, I stay,

Rooted, breathless, bound.

Something waits beyond that door—

But I dare not turn the knob.

The voice grows louder, pleading now,

But I am stone, I am still.

For what if I unearth the past,

And it swallows me whole?

Version 2

I walk a path I’ve known before,

Walls stained in time’s pale glow,

Checkered floors stretch endlessly,

Under lights that hum and flicker low.

Each door is carved with memory’s hand,

Numbers spill like scattered code,

Hearts dangle, trembling, whispering,

Names I once held close.

But at the end, the air grows thick,

A door stands shrouded, still.

A shadow hums behind the wood,

A voice that bends my will.

“Open the door. Just open the door.”

A knock—a thud—a pounding beat,

“You know me, don’t you trust me?”

The voice is cracked, incomplete.

The handle waits beneath my hand,

The dark curls closer still.

Yet something holds me, roots me fast,

A warning in the chill.

“Why won’t you open? Just open it!”

It pleads, it screams, it calls—

But silence grips my breath like chains,

And I do not move at all.

The pounding slows, the echoes fade,

The darkness shifts away.

The door remains, forever closed,

But I still hear it say—

“Just open it.”

The world did not shatter—it choked,

Green tendrils creeping through fractured bones,

Whispering through the ruins,

Roots twisting in hollow skulls,

Blooming where the bodies fell.

They called it a sickness,

But sickness does not whisper your name,

Does not slither through your veins like liquid shadow,

Does not wait—patient, pulsing, alive.

I should be theirs.

The vines should have swallowed me whole,

Wrapped tight around my mind,

Turned my hands into weapons,

My voice into theirs.

But I remain.

Half of something, half of nothing,

A glitch in the pattern,

A breath between screams.

I am hunted, hated, feared.

A warning. A mistake. A monster waiting to bloom.

And yet—

Deep in my bones, I feel it stir.

A root takes hold, a whisper grows louder.

I am not theirs,

But I am not mine, either.

Not yet.

Oh, Garfield, you orange delight,

A cat so round, yet full of spite.

Mondays fear you, that’s a fact,

Lasagna’s gone? Time to attack.

Jon serves veggies? What a sin!

A diet? No, you’ll never begin.

Odie wags—so full of glee,

But you just push him—one, two, three!

You nap for hours, stretch, then yawn,

By then, of course, the day is gone.

What a life! So full of ease,

With sarcasm sharp as shredded cheese.

Oh, Garfield, wise yet full of sass,

May your food bowl never lack its mass.

For if it does, we all shall fear—

The wrath of a hangry cat is near!

A sky of blush and bleeding red,

A sun that glares where gods have bled.

The hound’s head lingers, torn, undone,

Mouth agape in a silent stun.

Chains still cling like phantom hands,

Binding it to distant lands.

A body lost, a fate denied,

Yet open eyes still burn with pride.

The wound is deep, the wound is raw,

A testament to fate’s cold claw.

Yet in the crimson-painted glow,

Does it dream, or does it know?

Drifting through the silent air,

A relic of a world unfair.

Is it pain, or is it peace?

Is it death, or mere release?

The sun, a watcher, red and wise,

Reflects in hollow, severed eyes.

A head alone, yet thoughts remain—

A dream persists beyond the pain.

A beast stands tall ’neath crimson sky,

Its voice a song, a shattered cry.

The sun sinks low, the air burns red,

Yet something stirs, a hunger fed.

Teeth gleam sharp, a jaw agape,

Catching whispers, chasing fate.

The sky, a sea of molten fire,

Calls the beast to something higher.

Does it howl for what is lost?

For fleeting time, for love, for cost?

Or does it yearn for things unseen,

A dream beyond the in-between?

The night will come, the stars will fade,

Yet still it stands, unbound, unmade.

A silhouette ’gainst dying light,

Forever reaching—never flight.

A tethered ghost against the sky,

A severed fate left asking why.

The sun glares red, a watchful eye,

While silent winds let echoes die.

Teeth bared wide in frozen snarl,

A beast undone, a fate so cruel.

Yet chains still stretch, still bind, still pull,

As if the body lingers whole.

Does it dream, this fractured thing?

Does it howl, or does it sing?

Or does it wait, adrift, alone,

A head that’s lost—but not yet gone?

The ropes grow slack, the night draws near,

The sun bleeds low, the air is clear.

Yet even severed, even still,

The hound remains—it always will.

Oh wow, air? That must be nice.

My lungs just quit, rolled the dice.

Breathing’s cool—I wouldn’t know,

Mine taps out like, “Gotta go.”

A single stair? I’m gasping loud,

Wheezing like a haunted cloud.

Running? Ha! That’s just a dream,

Unless you count this gasping scream.

My lungs throw tantrums, “Nope, we’re done!”

Like breathing’s optional—just for fun.

Air goes in, but not enough,

Oxygen said, “That’s real tough.”

So here I am, inhaler tight,

Fighting air like it’s a fight.

Asthma’s a bitch, let’s be real—

Lungs that quit? What a deal.

He wears his face, the one I fear,

The ghost I swore was never near.

But here he stands, a perfect mold,

A younger frame, a voice grown cold.

His words—his laugh—it cuts the same,

A different mouth, but still my shame.

A shadow stretching, swallowing whole,

Digging nails into my soul.

I swore I left, I swore I ran,

But time loops back where it began.

His eyes, his stance, the way he moves—

The past reborn in worn-out grooves.

The air is thick, I gasp, I choke,

Drenched in memories never spoke.

The walls collapse, the doors stay locked,

A cage rebuilt, a clock unwound.

He doesn’t know, he’ll never see,

The way his presence buries me.

But as he speaks, I disappear—

His father’s hands still hold me here.

I feel lost, hollow, a shadow thin,

A whisper left where I had been.

A piece of me has slipped away,

Forgotten, lost—too far to stay.

What am I to do but roam,

Through empty halls that once felt home?

I chase a ghost I cannot find,

A moment gone, a past unkind.

I reach, I grasp, but time won’t bend,

It does not break, it does not mend.

The echoes fade, the silence grows,

A story told that no one knows.

And so I stand in memories dim,

The light once bright now cold and grim.

What am I to do but yearn,

For what was mine, yet won’t return?

Version 1

Step right up, it's time to debate!

No need for facts- just exaggerate.

Talk in circles, dodge, deglet,

never answer- just redirect!

If they press you, wear a grin,

change the subject- you still win!

Blame the other side, of course,

then pretend to show remorse.

Speak in riddles, twist the plot,

say a lot- but really not.

If they prove you're wrong, don't despair,

just say, "Fake news!" and wave the air.

And when in doubt, just raise your voice,

make empty promises- greatest choice!

Then shake some hands, flash a smile,

and disappear for a long, long while.

Version 2

Step right up, let’s start the show,

I’ll teach you tricks all pros should know!

Debate with style, with flair, with grace—

Just never let them pin your case.

First, dodge the question—swerve, deflect!

Answer with something they won’t expect.

If they ask why, you say who knows?

If they push back, you strike a pose.

Next, talk in circles—long, profound,

Say so much that they’ll drown in sound.

Use big words, throw in some fluff,

Make them feel they’ve heard enough.

Then point your fingers—Look at them!

Blame a stranger, blame a friend.

Blame the past or fate or weather,

Just never let them think you’re clever.

And when you’re cornered, take a stand—

Bang the table! Wave your hand!

Call them names, make a fuss,

And claim they’re the ones who don’t trust us!

At last, declare The People win!

Then shake some hands, flash a grin.

The secret trick? Here’s the key—

Just never let them question thee!

A voice so soft, so sweet, so low,

it weaves its words, a tale to sow.

It hums like silk, it sings like trust,

yet leaves behind a trail of dust.

It speaks in echoes, warped and thin,

a hollow sound beneath my skin.

It shapes the truth, it bends the light,

turns day into dusk, and wrong into right.

It whispers, "Stay, you'll never leave,"

it coos, "Believe, but don't believe."

A tangled thread, a silver tongue,

a shadow's breath where lies are spun.

And still it lingers, soft and slow,

its poison seeping, drop by flow.

I chase the truth, I pull, I pry,

but all I hear is one more lie.