In 1829, the wonderful and nearly mythic Edgar Allan Poe penned a poem describing his feelings of uniqueness and aloneness. He knew, early on in life, that he was different from others, created and shaped in a different mold. History, of course, proved he was right.

Over a century and half later, Michael Anderson read those words. He recognized a Golden Truth in Poe's poem, 'Alone,' and it lit a deep-felt sense of comradeship ironically based on shared aloneness. It also provoked a response, the elegantly simple, sweetly flowing words you are about to read.

Poe and Anderson are gifted writers. Using words and rhythms, and uniquely universal imagery, they are able to conveny both meaning and feeling. In this, perhaps, they are unusual. Even alone. But the Truth they share with their talents is far less unique. Poe was different, and history remembers him for his differences. Maybe, a hundred and fifty from now, Anderson will be similarly remembered. But each of us, even if unremembered by history, is nonetheless equally unique. Each of us is born and shaped in a 'world not the same,' and each of us is unable and maybe unwilling to bring our passions 'from a common spring.'

Each of us, in the end, is Alone.

I was walking by a school playground when I stopped to write this piece. I was taken aback by children at play who had no idea unemployment was up, no idea the country was about to go to war, and no concept of the cold realities that lie ahead in their very near future. I felt many emotions witnessing them at play, most of all envy.

Depression can be a dreadful thing. It overwhelms your emotions, your moods, the way you think, act, and respond to everyday life. The worst of it is depression is an invisible enemy; most never even see it coming.

Still, fighting depression can seem even more dreadful at times. How can one muster strength from weakness. How can one derive hope from despair. Sometimes it seems you're weaponless, taking stand against a raging "beast".

I don't claim to know the answers, I only know this is the battle I fight every day of my life. More often than not, just getting through to tomorrow is a gallant victory.

Thank you, PoetDeVine, for caring enough to see the signs. This one is dedicated to you.

Have you ever felt isolated, even with others all around you? Have you ever felt something's wrong - when nothing's wrong? Have you ever felt like no one on earth could possibly understand what you're feeling?

Well, I understand.

Some of us remember our dreams vaguely, some not at all. And some of us, it seems, are haunted by our dreams.

Michael says this poem describes a reoccurring dream of his. He has little idea what it means, and suggests that any message will probably be interpreted differently by each person who reads it. And that is certainly as it should be.

But one thing, at least, is clear and needs no interpretation: Michael has very vivid, very eerie dreams.

What is it you feel when you feel nothing? When you know you can't make a difference. When daily interaction with the world is just biding time. When the person in the mirror isn't even you. To me, it feels like I'm faceless.

This is a long poem that tells a story of a very short event in my life. The actual event didn't last more than a minute, yet it touched me very deeply and in many different directions. It's about hearing the sound of a crashing airplane and the emotions it stirs up within. The morning after this event occurred, it was on the news that hundreds of calls flooded the local airports complaining of low flying aircraft. All airports confirmed that no aircraft were in the area at that time.

This is a tough poem to write a description for. How can you describe pure emptiness, overwhelming uselessness, nonethingness. there was no special circumstance which led me to write this poem. These are simply feelings I deal with on a daily basis. I know there must be others out there who share similar feelings, therefore I'm willing to share this quite personal piece.

This poem is simply about the most beautiful person I have ever seen.

Fate had her sleeping in a bed within my own house one night but I, suffering in the chains of a broken marriage, never acted upon the impulse.

This poem was inspired by a picture of the sun setting over the Pacific ocean as a very special person shared this moment with me. I loved her then, I love her still, but as with the sunset, the moment faded all too fast.