all my friendsi was never the bestat making 'real' friendspeople would simply tolerate meas a means to a false end so i turned to what lay in-betweenthe beige pages of my booksi talked to pixels in my favourite gamesthough it earned me scathing looks i learned to stand and cheerfor the characters i held closeand the stories that helped me smilewhen i needed it most all my friends are fictionaland that might be as good as it getsbecause they're the realest peoplethat i have ever metthe sad clown i've played a circus actjust to make everyone smilenot just because i only sawthe evil this world brings in me,but because i've walked a milejust to see someone prove me wrong. when everyone followed the flashing lightsand crowded for short-term famei wanted to bring a flowerin this pile of corpses i'm a lab rat,test monkey,and an experimentto the big guys up above.i've never fell into their traps or their promises,but i feel like i'm their little sidekick just for existing. i've wanted to surrender my soulto smile again and to laugh at somethingi've wanted to mock the suffering, tobe their spokesman, to blend in. but is it worth the price?they would rather see me with the fisheseven if i were to give them what they want.i would never be accepted, and at the endthere's nothing that i'll really be able to gain. i'm going to run awayto hide in a place where i can dissapearbut retain my lifei'd rather be the sad clown than the happy executioner.mirrorsif i am made of everyone i have ever loved,then you are the end all, the epitome,and if i locked my worth in a dusted boxthen your hands would keep the rusted keys ... and how could you have ever inspired such fearif i was the one holding the fractured mirror?once upon a timeonce i met a soldierand sat with him awhilehe gave me an old taleof a flame that burnedso hot, so brightyet was doomed to fail he spoke of the face of warof battles to turn the tidethen wounds and broken bonesas his voice wavered and shookit was then i understoodhe knew what it was like to die he told of ill times and woeand though he spoke few wordshis voice measured and slowgleaming, shining at his sidethe candles caught the steelof an old, yet trusted sword though his face was coveredin markers of old painand time had clearly been unkinda smile danced upon his lipsto his hurt, he paid no mindas i asked him about his bladeresting upon his hip with a flourish and a raiseof his right, scarred armplayfully, he pointed it at methe sword held as if made of airhe gestured to it eagerlythen swung it with dramatic flair with the world on his shouldersand so many lives at stakefor everything he'd losthe'd fought and cried and bledbut how could he have lived,if he was already long dead? and yet how could i fault him,how could i place blame?when deep down, we both knewwe were always one and the sameconvincingif i painted a canvas,of charcoal and ash,in your likeness, carefully sewnyou would still face me downand tell me all the thingsthat, if i'm honest, are already known all the things i cannot sayin the mirror at the peak of dawnand all the things i cannot bearthe brief moment of confidence now gone(until i flee from my own reflection) and still, tomorrow, you'll drag me backgnashing my teeth, clawing and bitingjumping and flinching at my shadowand i know, despite my protests you'll convince me to stand upwith chin held high,and look again.The Golden Riddle (a poem)I have a riddle for you: Gilded and golden, and yet more elusiveTo break me so suddenly is considered intrusiveThe haunt of the thief, the friend of the pastorWhen there is no question, I am the answer.What am I?