The frost still hasn’t gone,
Binding one down,
A frozen tundra that constantly surrounds
These joints and these aches
Floating like smoke over piano keys,
The song plays no more.
It’s stagnant and dry.
They say summer is nigh,
But life is not of a cycle.
Born in Spring, we never see Spring again.
Only the natural concede,
The rest cease to breathe.
For many death brings new life,
For conscious thinking,
Life brings new death,
Over and over.
What to do but wait?
We can’t leave a mark as it is.
And those that do leave scars.
Healed overnight,
And ignored as reminders,
Instead as glory.
Competing for injustice,
Whose is the worst of all.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 11:38 PM UTC
Everyone is moving forward.
I'm being left behind.
In here. In my head.
I haven't accomplished ****
I feel like I make decisions because it looks like the right thing to do.
It is what everyone else does.
I do what everyone wants because I literally don't know how to do what I want.
What I want always ****** things up.
How I lived was always wrong.
I don't even know how to make decisions.
Do I even want to?
I just stay status quo.
I'm boring and wandering around empty and dead.
I'm a shell.
There isn't anything worth anything inside.
If there was, I'd have let it out already.
I have nothing to offer myself.
I appease everyone else.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 12:36 AM UTC
We all spend time hurting ourselves.
We just differ on how we let it show.
It's unfair that physical pain equals emotional.
But, it also feels the best.
Life is one big analysis of reflecting on why it's not so bad.
In order to not give up on all we have, Maybe letting go is the only way.
Maybe caring for oneself is the way to sway
everyone's opinions.
Which are **** anyway.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 12:34 AM UTC
We are at the mercy of the city, they said.
Trapped and bound, it wasn’t pretty.
We are the kids who have accomplished nothing.
The kids who lived too fast.
The kids who didn’t live at all.
Wanting to be something, facing the fall.
Laughing in the face of darkness.
Pretending to do our jobs while they drop pennies.
Here and there, bounding everywhere.
Facing the end of the map,
Opportunities landing everywhere but our laps.
Then the lights come on, at the game’s end.
The charade is over, no time left to pretend.
Pretend to be grown, happy, and alone.
Together in this land of the infinite unknown.
Cliche’d and replayed and lost in the many quotas.
Not enough going on anymore to really take note of.
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 11:31 AM UTC
My thoughts are always wrong.
Rehearsing things to say so long
that I'll never respond.
Too hard to take my time.
Too quick to jump this gun.
Fixating on all the most inappropriate fascinations.
Holding tongues on all the worst occasions.
Let's play a good old fashioned game of Russian Roulette.
Rushing to do all the things we'll regret.
And forgetting all those words we pretend to believe.
I'll always have one more deception up my sleeve.
That might just be the old me.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 11:30 PM UTC
You are a treat for the senses.
Beautiful as the reflection of the sun on a glistening lake.
Soft as the petals you pressed in your journals.
Sweet as the honey on your fingertips - taste and smell.
Gentle as the whisper of the breeze on a frosty winter morning, biting at you as it passes you by.
Still as the time that doesn't move when you're breathing.
Deep as the casket in your heart.
Dark as your time alone at the start of your last day on Earth - captured in the photos you took of yourself.
To round back to your everlasting beauty.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 1:56 AM UTC
Forcing these thoughts like clay through a spout.
Flagrant doubt as to the success of your recent suffering.
It isn't like it used to be. Nothing is like it used to be.
Lost inspiration in happiness - dragging out words like animal carcass.
No immortal flow - no ingenious drawl - blathering rants disguised in colorful diction.
Dissatisfaction in all nonfiction - creativity only thriving on dysfunction.
Functionality is ruining your beauty.
You were better when you were useless.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 1:51 AM UTC
Unending. Pulsating. Degrading displacing discomfort on frozen ice beds of memories.
Fearful. Tearfully regretting the times you didn't say what you wanted to say.
Pretend the end isn't drawing near, threatening all that is dear to the imperfect balance that borders insanity.
Vanity. Crazed apologetics forcing your hand in your somber attempt at a grand gesture.
Enticing forgiveness overdone by the willingness to forgetting innocent Mistakes.
The fading grace you fake to seem okay hidden beyond hindsight and letting go of your right to love.
Stop loving.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 1:47 AM UTC
You are the freshly aged petals on the page.
Pressed first up against a cheek or two and dried to last forever.
Transcending all stages of beauty and living long after withering.
Your soul extends beyond the softness in your texture - the sweet scent of all your cracking gestures.
You cannot change the closing of the day - the frosty creeks still rush to all your heart does say.
You have plucked the petals from your budding heart and we pick them up to keep as art, because your flailing is a performance.
Your movements are enticing, you sway to all desire, the sounds murmured by your coarse crying voice inspire.
The beauty is in your entire existence.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 1:42 AM UTC
You watch and wait for time to take all that it can from inside your soul.
It's wasted, the money you spent on time, you could have paid half to indulge on the mere portion of life you've tasted.
This earth, we've gradually graced it - and meaninglessly traced it - in books and photos and missed the memo reminding us to live.
The moment you chose to give up that argument - and all the energy you spent on settling for loving.
These blues and grays sometimes consume the days in which you could be laughing.
Lost in the echo of the static cracking of the voice maintained in quivering.
The shivering of the cold beyond the false control of everyone who has it together.
When problems weigh that of a feather.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 1:35 AM UTC