The road behind bares us a backdrop, too many nights find us fractured in our thoughts and the dreamers we once were are far from the two people who stand today.
We're broken, mere splinters of our shipwreck past, driftwood on a shore that drowns every time the ocean breathes.
The path is littered with slaughtered dreams that didn't bleed.
As time and tide wait for no man shall we find it a tragic scene?
simply erased with the sunsets demise?
No one gets away without a scar and mine speak a road map to chaos
and a found hello to you.
Mine own scars are fingertips
gouged into the sand and faded
but salted by tears of the ocean, inerasable by the tide.
A soul washed up upon the shore, a road map etched delicately into fine bones.
You can trace where I'd been before. All roads lead to your hello.
In broken lines and have uttered phrases and one too many empty night.
Backdrop of chaos does paint in the darkest colors you could ever imagine .
How does it gets so flawed by our own creations and vices my dear?
Does it still ring ever so true?
The bell rings true whispering distant voices
Empty nights are just bottles lined up as dead soldiers
We contemplated our own truths and fell victim to our own vices
The backdrop is black, no colour beneath skin.
Honestly? Where does our downfall begin?
Two ships underneath the nightscape past the spark once understood the flame and nothing more .
In empty alleys, like cats to prowl, we find our moments, and then bury our thoughts to lay for no others to see.
half written papers and half heard conversation the keys of the piano haunt the silence as myself shadows that still remain.
Nothing is but a thought and those are like dead flowers laid to waste a reflection of far better times
The night crawls to meet the day as it has so many times before.
The thought of the minds bottle lay empty upon the table.
A fond farewell is but a sugar coated goodbye.
And I seldom have minced my words to mask their sting.
The page forever bleeds.
Pages that lay scattered on a ***** floor
Bleeding ink into cracks
that will forever more
hide the spirit of our souls.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 12:51 PM UTC
writing leads you to
places
you could before only
imagine
when you ask
"why do you like to write?"
you're missing out on
something great
the question is a double-edged
sword
because there are so many
answers
to such a simple question
writing is creation
writing is passion
writing is discovering
writing is believing
writing is comfort
writing is home
and i choose to partake in this art
to ease some hidden burden
and it tastes like relief
and it is in this
that the loneliest people of the
world
are the most free.
- d.m.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC
see, what confuses me
is that i'm most often kept
on the outside
of your shining brilliance
i don't get to experience
the marvelous rays of
your genius
and that's alright, i suppose
i instead get to glimpse
from the outside
when i get the chance
and i've settled for that
standing out and looking in
is where i’ve grown accustomed
it’s okay, don’t feel bad
i’m used to it
( it is now a case of the day-to-day
rather than the out-of-the-ordinary. )
it surely isn’t your fault
that someone like me is
so plain, that your greatness
overshadows my own
mediocrity.
-d.m.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 2:55 PM UTC
You are above me, for the simple fact that you are not me.
I am but a lonely piano player, who resides in the corners
of restaurants and blackened old hearts. You, with
glimmering eyes, and mischievous lips, dance barefoot
against the earth, the arches of your feet covered in free-verse.
I do not approach you; you are above me.
And here is something you may have overlooked
One room’s floor is another room’s
ceiling, and while you sway and dance and live and wander
you are inevitably doing so on my dreams. Burdened and breathless,
I sit and watch you move, up in the stars and the night and the
glow of the moon.
I look up and i see Heaven, you look down and you
see Hell. And as you bow your head to pray, just remember,
you are above me.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 4:38 PM UTC
sometimes i think about the time
when life was sublime
and i wonder where i lost myself
when i placed my soul up on a shelf
maybe the pictures on the wall
that slow time down to a crawl
will show me a bit of me
let me grow upwards like a tree
i will not consider the chance
that perhaps it won't enhance
and instead i'll freeze
and i'll fall to my knees
the memories come unbidden
and will instead let in
a flow of unwelcome thoughts
no, i think, better not.
- d.m.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 2:49 AM UTC