My home,
Up in there,
With the darkness,
That has been a share,
In my poems,
It isn't rare.
The home in my mind,
Is full.
Too thick,
To push or pull.
It is dark,
*****,
Empty of light.
And so,
It is so insensible,
That it's entrance,
Is inaccessible,
Because,
It isn't sensible,
There are so many blocks,
No sense can reach in,
But the entrance can be open,
When reminded of,
Or spoken of,
And they temporarily walk around,
Without control,
Because my brain is crazy to be controlled,
But they can show themselves,
Until they go back in,
The darkness not anymore thin.
I can use a block of my own,
That it hates,
A sensation,
Not feeling,
But mentally created,
Now this may be debated,
But a temporary mental nervana,
Caused by the craziness,
Making a haziness,
So thick,
That the thoughts can't show,
Only travel,
Without sense of the fog,
But the fog destroying it's sense.  
The darkness can't get around this.
Which is okay,
For me to know,
That never a day,
Will come where the darkness has devoured me as prey.

I wonder,
If a positive life,
Is really true,
If someone could really,
Have that view,
But still go through,
Terrible realizations,
Facts and opinions,
Negative situations,
And still understand,
Feel sympathy,
Even feel empathy,
While still being positive,
Not being attracted,
Towards the dark,
Or negative,
Not be affected,
Or being effected,
By life experiences.
To a person like this,
I cannot understand,
Nor feel hope,
From the very idea,
Or thought,
Of this lifestyle,
But I have a want or wonder if you are real,
And I feel the need,
To know you are,
That may give me a seed,
A temporary hope,
A nice mirage,
That will help temporarily cope,
With my existence,
For a little while.

Think of something positive.
A flower.
Thorns without a rose.
Butterfly.
Pretty enough to die.
A child.
Prey to the evil eye.
Hope.
Something that is used to control you.
Block you from the truth.
A sin.
Something where everyone's been.
A positive thought,
Is a beginning of a negative.
Multiple.
Inside people.
Tell me something positive.
It turns into the creeping vines,
Disgusting and disturbing lines,
That lead my story,
Into something scary,
Dark.
Depleted of any kind of good.
Based off the dark inside,
I have discovered it all.
Yet I don't fall.
It's just in me.
A home it can crawl back to anytime,
A continuous lyric in a rhyme.
Call me the walking thought of crime.
Torture.
Hurt.
Not the real thing,
But full of the thought.
You have positivity?
You better run.
Escape.  
Because your prey.

Too many,
In the dark,
Imagination,
Cold and Stark,
I no longer cry,
Except inside,
But I have,
Nowhere to hide.
They creep up,
From dark,
From the cold,
From the Stark,
Disgusting thought,
Romantic or frantic,
It preys on my mind,
Maybe my mind on my soul,
Because when you can't,
Think of anything,
That won't turn,
Into the everything,
Of the wrong,
It has become,
Too much.
And you have become,
Too much.
I cannot be handled,
While I struggle,
To get out the rubble,
Fade way,
To a land far away,
I was like this,
Before I even existed.
Socially,
I have no one.
Because no one,
Can can except even one,
Minute of me.
What I see,
Is the futility,
Of me trying,
Of me crying,
Of me prying out the terrible,
Unbearable,
Thoughts of me,
Thoughts in me,
Thoughts carried with me.
It's too much,
To fight.
Too much,
For flight.
Hope?
No light.
Too much,
So much,
That that light no longer exists.
In me.
But maybe in others,
It is there.
That is fair.
You can use it,
As a drive,
Not a path,
But a motivation.
Like a vacation.
Too much for me,
Not enough for you.
Yet.

I don't know the proper way,
To mature either standing or lay,
In your mental and emotional stance,
This is where my maturity prance,
Yet I feel still a child,
My thoughts of the world run wild,
What I have seen,
Has not kept clean,
Nor has been,
A profound win,
I am at a loss,
For the things crawling towards me,
In my mind,
Do they notice me,
Why my fate,
Has no date,
With destiny,
Or correction,
I am not surprised,
I already know who I am,
I already know my future,
This said with a slam,
Slamming shut my curiosity,
Life is no longer the boss of me,
When I know it's tricks,
When I know how it can hurt with stones and sticks,
So what to say,
Where my maturity already lay.
Feeling it tomorrow,
Feeling it today.

It is music to my ears,
To know that you are happy.
Unless you're my heart's tears,
Then you make me sappy.
I may say I am selfless,
But really I am not.
I only talk about my troubles,
It was always in my thought.
For people who hate me,
I always understood.
For people who like me,
I never understood.
You could?
You should?
You would.
You would if I were a completely different person,
With less issues and more talent.
That may not be you,
Or you,
But maybe you.
You know why,
Deep down my true emotion isn't care?
Music helps me.
Motivates me.
To fight staying who I am.
But I know I can't.
You can.
Do whatever it takes.
Whatever peaceful and unhurtable method motivates you,
To be better.
That is music to my ears.

She didn't want this.
Neither did he.
Nor deserve.
Or need.
Yet the void,
Can still plant it's seed.
In a child's heart,
Watch their life's light bleed.
Even in the purest,
Darkness is corrupting.
People claw,
In different directions.
For power,
For their control over other's views.
Opinions and feeling don't matter,
To those with a strong void emotion,
It is a vile potion.
That which is dranken,
When people do true wrong.
Act true wrong.
Even feel true wrong,
It is a song,
That is sung,
Until someone,
Stops the multiple singers who sung,
The true tune,
That is the call of the void.
And even the smallest acts power it.