Maybe it's not knowing what the fuck will happen or if you will even make it back to begin with that draws me like a moth to a flame .
Maybe I'm just so far gone and this is one step further from the edge and I know the madness will somehow keep me sane .
Headlights and strangers harsh faces echo my direction towards nothing and everything in-between.
The road is a lover whom never returns that affection and maybe that's why you only want her more .
Small towns paint my backdrop as I chase sunsets maybe we will share this view without knowing my friends and maybe my story will find its end.
I cant pretend to know the outcome I just embrace the tornado and laugh at the destruction nothing sometimes means more than any
trinket clenched like a anchor it only binds us to one spot.
I embrace the winds and challenge the storms .
I am the ghost whom chose to be a whisper.
A shared bottle now empty memories will paint my epitaph.
Tomorrow is a mystery and I only care to be part of this madness
Some questions are best left unanswered .
I will see you again my friends .
In his seasons passing words wither and fade with the sunsets reprise.
These images paint portraits with grey backdrops tattered, twisted throwing stones across the pond only to hear them vanish in the dark waters below.
All the pretty flowers fully in bloom untouched by earth and unsoiled in the dirt of corruption of an existence lived in regret.
Bitter pills and torn pages have we not traded are truths to be lies created for are own protective womb of deceit to fulfill our ego.
All the pretty flowers wither just the same.
As standing skeletons left only to haunt the backdrop of our thoughts decay.
Are we not monsters?, Who once stood as men with great views whose vices consumed them turning us into something we can barely recognize ourselves.
Soil once fertile now seems only scorched a barren square of emptiness once were all things did grow.
All the pretty flowers mourn springs passing this concrete idealism for which no direction seems to suit us best.
I stand where here no longer will anything grow.
Old reflections and new revelations seem mired by my past.
Words thrown together for amusement the wreckage now simply a skeleton for children to play.
Sandalwood spent offerings the afterglow has long since left us cold now it lingers only in whispers somewhere within the catacombs of a dream I so eagerly forget and relive with each tune played .
Does it still seem the same from you distant view my dear?
And old fights passions spent dried blood and a once in the moments ecstasy and a bitten lip.
How it seems a stranger now a old sentiment for a even older fool.
To hell with the memories they stand a tides pool of nothing I give a fuck to embrace .
Maybe the nights are backdrop a story overplayed but none so beautifully fucked up as you.
Sureal is it now as my pavement of reality old faces and new enemies it's so fucking overplayed sweetheart almost as I.
We are nothing more than the example of the carnage .
Scars shared echoes of a illusion and are shared delusion how we laughed with the crash.
Tell me do they linger fragments misspent with others we react are ways with such bit players and one night stands where did we become
so jaded in a perfect sense.
Its all a act of repeat .
I dialed the number and simply hung upo before there could be a response .
For that train was derailed long before it met the station my dear .
just because I never reached out .
Don't ever believe I once did not care .
Lies we tell to are souls turn us to bitter old fools .
And this was my cue.
Exits are simply roads to yet another stage .
And mine was set long before my words reprise .
Yeah sometimes you just can't avoid that rear view mirrors
gaze no matter what kind of bastard you have become.
Never pen your dreams on me for my thoughts are embers of a once ever so bright fire.
Tatters of thought bury the recluse now they simply confide in me a lost fool who truly never gave a shit to begin with.
The fighter that's tried and worn his body broken his will the only thing left that he holds true.
When you have drown in your vices from this bottom will you emerge or simply settle for a good rest ?
past glory and worn lines my story is a cliff note to the bullshit the will imagine .
Empty bottles and the scars to show the rroads end and all is left to return.
When they break you they will simply find another kid .
And life will pass you by as it has me.
Watch the patterns only to break the rules no outlaw fades easily.
And the sad old men we've become isn't a scene I care to relive much longer.
Nobody will be surprised for it been long overdue but I could never exist on another's terms.
I rather crash and burn than fade gracefully I am sorry to disappoint
but the hand was shit to begin with kids .
It's not always the way we see it but In life do we seldom write the ending.
Maybe the page understands me far better than I understand myself anymore .
Well when you get there as I you wont envy the others only realize the roads been paved long before your words where nothing g more than whispers .
Bury your ego for it has nothing to gain.
I view the highways end a different man than the young fool who cast his cares to the wind.
It's time to bury mine .
We played the act for as long as possible but to the naked eye it was so easily clear.
As the radio cry's old memories I realize are thoughts were bleak as this half delusion cast view .
Take my hand as one last time we embrace only to close the chapter .
Nobody can see the man for the character maybe I simply asked to much of you and to little of myself.
It's no longer there sweetheart so to you and the reader I must say this farewell.
Chapters close and pages fade nothing understands the pain but with time soon none will recall.
We know the memories now it's simply time to erase the void .
I hate this choice but tonight is as good as the next.
Shards of broken glass once held fragments of are half truths.
Secrets will seldom remain so try not let them bury you as me.
The nights magic no longer is my spark and this page has far better
company to keep.
Treat her well as she once did treat me.
I sit in darkness, soaked in Gin, I remember everything,
except all the things Tequila forgot,
I remember nothing except for the things left to rot
I forgot the darkest nights
most certainly in days light
I forgot you placed the drink in my hand,
is that how we ended up here last night?
A half empty glass we have mired our delusion dear
Do the stories just get better or do we simply fill in the blanks?
Trace our old lines again and again.
Weathered are my eyes behind a mask
It’s no place to breath but anything beats the grave.
As we recall the sunset from the shore it seems so far now
it is but a fraction of the truest sense and the most cursed fools delusion
a switchblades sting and you will remain my favorite scar?
Delusions are illusions with which we fool ourselves
with a magician’s eye and a sense of skill.
Sunsets upon a distant shore are our memories
retreating against our will.The switchblades knife is rusty and it's only hope is to scar.
Do you revere or revile me?
The empty bottles that lay between us ask for little.
I ask us for more!
Will I be your scar, the one you rub when you’re alone?
Tracing lines that cut so deep but set rigid, like stone?
Perhaps the open wound you created
when you picked apart our past won't heal as quickly,
and like the final drink we had together won't be our last.
Painted is the portrait so far from the truths we all choose to ignore
and now I simply understand are regrets than the echoes of a shared view.
When we break the heart do we find solace in a statue like existence?
We all spill the glass sometimes and a candles view dim will only reflect the shadows we've become.
Tomorrows a dream and the nightmares become a friend far more than this dance
I care no longer to stand and the ice won’t bare the weight of this ego's crash.
Let's skate the ice so thin it cracks beneath the weigh of pain.
Let's dance the tango of wilted dreams and find no shame.
Let the broken heart of shattered glass
be a reminder of our pain
but you and I, we share a common lust
we mix silently, oil and water
blending in the same frame
For from the page to the far corners of this empty floor we have made our choices
Now we understand past regrets in silent reframe
Never doubt the passion for the lack of fire it simmers a volcano underneath the illusion of emptiness and so we find are paths twisted yet always brought back to the same point.
We always speak in shadows what is known in light of day.
Our paths are gritty dirt, pretty split and intertwined
broken cobblestoned nights and sun baked days to which we can’t deny
Shadows that come to play hide the demons
we would once talk to, but threw away
when we attempted to revive a life we weren't meant for
Our answers don't lay at the bottom of the bottle
nor do they rest behind the closed door,
They itch beneath our fractured skin and spill their secrets on the floor
dripping from serrated cuts that pump a life full of opiate memories
the broken bottle stands as sentinel asking always for
Maybe we found our muse in a mutual insanity.
Laid bare the vein I question what lingers when nothing remains beneath?
This last round stands only for the night my dear for its clutches are but a moments embrace and an overcast view.
Tomorrow I can never promise what fate hands us by surprise.
Insanity is a fickle Muse
that's sips from a collapsed vein
breaking bottles against skulls
looking for an idiot to blame
Personally I think our Muse
is a Mistress that flogs well in the dark
Chaining our souls to our demons
never shining light on our demise,
Demanding we whip ourselves hoarse
prying opens the oysters
of our murky world spilling pearls of stone into a world so stark
No, the Muse of you and I is an unruly bitch.
She chokes our memories and forces our pain
with a flick of her wrist