I did a little rewrite of the famous poem "The Raven" by Edgar Allen Poe. Hope you like, it's an old one, but it took a while for me to do. Once as I was sitting, staring, suddenly it turned to glaring Scowling at a life of thinking, shrinking more and more. And in these thoughts, in my mind sneering, suddenly I started hearing The voice of anger near to nearing, clearing thoughts I thought before. “It comes to curse me,” I muttered, “appearing at my psyche’s door. Alone for this, and nothing more.” And, so darkly I remember, on that day in cold December, As only one remaining ember brought a glow to my décor, Cynically I thought of dying, bitter at a life of trying To find a moment free of lying, free of things one can’t ignore. Things like anguish, angst, and sorrow, that my person can’t ignore. Here to stay forevermore. And the long and saddened sighing of my careful breathing Pained me--chained me in the many moods I’ve felt before So that now, with feelings flowing, I stood alone in my mind knowing: “’Tis this disaster so surrounding, entreating entrance at my psyche’s door “Some great sadness so surrounding entreating entrance at a mental door: This it is… and nothing more.” Presently my heart grew keener, eager for a new demeanor, “Pain,” said I, “strictly your compliance I implore. For it‘s true, that I was living, when you came, so unforgiving, Nourished on my own misgiving, a misgiving that I now abhor: That I scarce control my choices.” And here I shut and locked the door. Motivation there, and something more. Now to my soul I stood there glancing, slow I pondered, now advancing Toward a dream I had once reveled in before. And in this image now unbroken, I saw myself and one word spoken, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word of “Your…” This was whispered, and I could not murmur back the word. “Your…” Mine, I thought, and nothing more. And the sadness, so surrounding, no more lingers, no more lingers In the wide and vacant hollow just inside my psyche’s door. For such a thing has all the traces of such dark and hopeless places, Where it has replaced all that I do adore. And my soul from out these shadows I shall make better than before. This I can do, and nothing more