Shadows cross my path.
I rest myself in their shade.
Sit, linger with me.

Sun shines down the road.
Leading into tomorrow.
Leading on, for you.

I wish my world felt tension.
For years I've felt guilt,
felt sorrow and regret.
These days though, I just feel tired.
Thusly so my spirit dreams on,
waiting out the days before change.
Waiting out the days before tension,
or whatever other blessed something shakes my world.
I wish my world felt anything at all.

A quaint beginning,
marked by visions of grandeur.
What torment is this?

Reeling from the breeze,
The leaves are robbed of their will.
So too, is the tree.

This echoed migration of thought,
nightly, through my mind belies a sort’ve contempt for the lauded progression I so heartily cling to.
Knowing this, I turn a blind eye to the abject suffering the repeated offence causes.
I shrug off another night spent whiling away nothing and assert that the ritual is necessary.
I know, of course, that this is a lie.
But when it is the lie which propagates that same self-assured sense of potential for eventual change;
It is perhaps not wrong to suggest that the lie has become reason.
For better or worse, I do not know, nor will I likely ever know for certain.
But still, the pondering of endless, pointless why’s marches on and carries me away to it’s heavy rhythm.
Dutifully I write along to this rhythm, and in doing so,
I begin to call myself a poet, the word itself a form of hiding.
A deterrent for progress.
I turn inward to feelings I now call artful, once harrowing, and I weep.
I understand that the change has indeed already come.
That those things I once sought to rid myself of have in fact changed.
They have become the crutch upon which I carry myself further into my own supposed wisdom; another lie.
Though not for anyone else, no, not another way to convince them that this is healing.
For myself. To swear again that this is comfortable, or right, or at least that it isn’t killing me.
But is it?
Is it okay? Is it killing me?
The thought shifts.
I lose it, just another echo tonight.
;

I wonder when it’ll rain again?

Inhale smoke,
exhale my memories,
laugh at a joke,
and forget about your enemies

Wake up sober,
freak about the future,
struggle through another day,
and start it all over.

There’s nothing to be pleased about.
There’s nothing here but sorrow.
There’s nothing left to go without.
There’s nothing but Tomorrow.

Smoke on the wind, moon in the sky.
A little boy watches his best friends die.
He's awake through the night, not once does he cry.
Come the next morning he only asked: "why."

A million faceless vermin burrow deep into my mind.
They feed on broken sentences, and words I couldn’t find.

It's been long past due-

for a memory, or two-

to remind me of the days-

when I was happy, like you.

suffocating, stuck, struck suddenly stressed
what’s a man to do when he’s sunk, sad and depressed?

The blind, bitter, *******’s been bountifully blessed
but can’t hold his head up high or even bother to dress.

He takes tablets of toxins, he’s told it’s only a test
he’s at the end of his rope now and he’s totally threshed

He’s seen a lot of ****** sights, seen his sisters suppressed
he’s seen the face of god too, but he wasn’t impressed.