Never let your mask slip, not for a ******* minute, there isn't a single soul you can trust and you must keep on pushing for as far as you can go, I'm marking every month and minute as a measure of how much further I can go, and to be honest if I'll make it to another birthday I am in hell if I know, because I can feel the shadow of that hand that is always creeping for our necks, i am measuring every second to the next, screaming yes! I made it to another one, but then it's passed and that's another gone and ******* I still feel the same, if time heals wounds then why am I still in pain it is weining on me I am raw, but I don't know if I can go a second more, but here I am counting one minute to the next, but by every measure I give it a year till the planet is one person less.

Here I stand, 5 feet and 10 inches above the ground that I hardly find the effort to pull myself up from, I will be buried six feet below it at some point which is further from it than I in life will become, and even then I will be horizontal, succumbing to that ever lingering notion that is the prospect of death, it has etched and molded myself from myself till soon there will be  nothing left, but a statue of the stature of a man that came before, to his journals and the night his life he did outpour and that when lay calmly in the coffin of his custom he will fret no more.

But that was him, his mind ever fixed on what will be and what has been so he hardly ever saw what is, but he knows that and then reflects and fears to do it in future and thus so the pattern exists.

This is never what he thought reality was, felt so certain in knowledge and knowing because he felt for a time it gave him some control,
unknowing that by tearing down ideas that make others whole, he was unpiecing the puzzle that made up his sad and shallow soul.

So foul the thought became that he was the creator of his own disdain that he bound himself in pain, built a greenhouse of shame for himself
pane by pane to bathe in the glow of all he did and could ever know, till it burned him and wilted to roots he needed to grow.

But as if by some gorgons curse what makes it worse is not that he died, but that he still persists, the panes he built reflecting that he exists,
with this body and face he was born with, and acts as a 42inch screen for him to watch himself live. If you could call it living, seeking out repeat  prescriptions of poison forfilling and willing for them to change some part of the life he saw, but they did and do nothing less and nothing more than to beg to be used again, like a poorly chosen friend they are the function of forming our fortune and then bringing the fortunes end.

It all depends on what we think life is in end, is it a test or joke? Are we the echos of a voice that noone spoke? Is there even a reason? Would we even find that pleasing? To know that we were created by something that also created death and pain like they were teasing us with our own existence? Or is it like the seasons that as we mark one
changing to the next, we're so vexed that we don't see that none of the systems are changing there is no beginning or an end as there is with books? We're so perplexed by our own consciousness and the changing of years and months and days that we're stupid enough to pick up a newspaper and believe what ever the first page says.

We take everything at face value if we're smart enough to be dumb, because look to hard beneath the mask and the magic is then undone. We think we've won by meriting our actions as creating some change, but the positions on a chessboard all exist no matter how much we rearrange. Whats strange is that none of the things we give meaning to matter, because really nothing matters, and it doesn't matter that nothing matters, the matter we're all made of can be deconstructed into energy and the energy of the universe can be woven into any
form but it does nothing to deform the fact that we are here, standing on the ground that is made up of the same stuff as us, from the energy of the universe that made stars that lie above us. And we could argue about and chicken and an egg from the beginning of the universe until there is nothing left but the ground that I stand on has never had a crisis of confidence it just is. I stand and stomp and slide all over it my entire life and it has never given a ****, and hell maybe this metaphor isn't worth it or even its too derivative, but the purpose of my life I have come to live with, is that this is the life I have had to begin with. There isn't a single truly perfect thing in the universe and purpose is insignificant compared to living it.

I don't know if I'll find or need another to take my hand, I don't know if I'll ever bow to a gods command, I don't know why there are more stars than grains of sand , but all I do know is here I am, and until that is no longer true, here I stand.

We see mountains in the distance and decide they're something to climb,
We see opertunity within grasp and claim "it must be mine",
But these are shimmering mirages with the lustre of fools gold,
They are stairways painted on walls which hope they do enclose,
Holding dear within those smoke forged prey we create to catch so fast,
But time withers our realm and reach by our past,
But lasting thoughts are there as ghosts and remain to haunt,
Strengthened by those on mountaintops who decide that they should flaunt,
And taunt us with false wisdom that they preach,
So I know now there are mountaintops I'll never reach.

I used to tend to sunflowers,
Nurtured and nurished their seeds,
Through soft songs and flourished hours,
Their beauty a mirror to my needs,
It feeds a hole in my life's fabric,
One I cared not for to stitch in time,
So the hole has become a scar and what's tragic,
Is my sunflowers died and buried into that hole of mine,

I have spent years regretting,
Pulling away pettles and crying over the fact they won't regrow,
But though I knew not at the time I wasnt letting,
My sunflowers growing new and so,

In time I came to remember,
Something I concede that I should already know,
That the rotten dreams of last December,
Are mulch from which new sunflowers will grow,

So what if the sunflowers of my past may never not return,
So what if my fabrics torn and gaping gap will never mend,
The new seeds that I soe are now my new concern,
I have new sunflowers now to tend.

Will this be how I end?
A series of fortuneless failings forging fake ideas on which I depend,
Will this be how I end?
Messy myriads of malicious and mundane men and woman of disdain for each a pain they recommend,
Is this how I end?
An audacious allegory screaming to the world with hopes in vain and civil likings I pretend,
Is this how it all ends?
The subtle cries and whimpers of the weak and weary through a touch screen connection to my friends?
Is this how my world ends?
Taking nothing with us but leaving a thousand things owned by men who pretend to give yet do nothing but lend
Is this my end?
The teetering tempting footsteps on a ledge to leap and leave nothing less, than a pavement canvas of crimson and marrow blend,
to bend my will against the curb that will not bend and send a message to a nihilistic god screaming nothing will this mend,
so then to the torturous temptations that in my mind I tend I say,
The end?

Perhaps this sorrow is permanent, I ponder as my mind wanders to seek wonders or just purpose in something, anything,
Trapped by these childlike desires to see beauty in fires and not the chaos that instead they can bring, consuming everything.
Denial of the unknown, security in fires that were blown and beat back and kept calm and disarmed and at bay,
Though they once roared now they're finished, all but completely diminished extinguished as like wind blown away.
The dark they fought back now it hounds and attacks, with my soul as their sparse dreaded pray.
There once was a feast for these dark dreaded beasts, but the worn threads now oh how they fray.
So little by little, my self fragile and brittle, there are more cracks in the walls of my mind,
I am falling away, faster night over day and to reason or will left I am blind.
A stalemate is reached, between beliefs that I preach, and how much further my weak weary soul can go on,
Still I try to find joy, with the whit I deploy, after all permanent sorrow, is lost, when we're gone.

Time is hanging around me like a noose,
It was was once so different in my youth,
When it was loose and free, and mine alone to waste,
Not just an anchor that held me at my waist,
The haste with which I wished to age,
I felt as if youth was a steel forged cage,
The rage I held for my youthful hope,
It tied the knot within that rope.
As it sits so tempting, I feel its weight on my shoulders,
With everyday making the world seem colder,
My older self a frame that longs so to be hung,
Wishing for more time to stay simple and be young,
But the final song is sung and my picture seeks a wall,
With nothing but my enemy of fate to try to stall,
But all I want is my rope to unravel,
To have more chance to to laugh, and live, and travel,
To have all the time of my life that I deserve,
To leave memories that even time could not disturb.
Though its absurd its the lack of time we need,
It gives us the chances to love and so believe,
So I will leave the rope to rest on my neck and never let it take my weight,
About time I seized my fate or wreck, no longer will I wait.