What are we doing?
We don’t get to have control.
A simple flutter, and our life’s work is gone.

The dominoes have begun and stand too close together.
We are last in line on the edge of a cliff.
Immovable in a world that will leave us behind.

Faith, trust, and pixie dust
That’s what helps you fly.
Why do we believe such childish lies?

Who do we think we are?
We don’t get to create the rules.
A small spark, and our lives become ashes.

Right corner pocket and its over for everyone.
We watch the ball that’s rolling and headed to the end.
Wishing to be but only a passerby.

Faith, trust, and pixie dust
That’s what helps you fly.
Why in the hell do we even try?

I write.
Well wrote my own story at hand.
I’m not finished with what I’ve hardly started,
Just placing the pen to rest in my pocket.

Fold up the floor, Tear down the tents,
Throw out my key, Stick out my thumb,
It’s time to put this show on the road.

I’m gone. Content.
Life in slideshow form shown through my dash.

I’m done. Unchanged.
With troubles nothing but rumble and dust.

Crack me open, Read what you may,
Wait for the break, A mid-sentence halt.
”Gone fishing, be back later.”

A toss of the pen, the key to this code,
A rise and a fall, no idea how to go.
Will it be caught, wrote down in new ink,
Or will it be waiting, for my absence to sink.

My bare feet walk this path alone.
Leaving the story it caused behind.
The pain falls away little by little through the hole in my pocket,
like bread crumbs to a troubled past.

I’ve left my shoes at home, broken in and worn out.
Try them on if you’d like,
walk around, get the feel of things.
But don’t try to fix them,
cleaning would only cover the scuffs entailing my journeys.

Next to my shoes is a box,
a place I have collected my thoughts.
Don’t break the lock, for I wear the key.
My thoughts are gone and just for me.
I’ve engraved the top, that who sees will know.
'Stay Gold'.

If you look beneath you’ll find a book.
The pages of irrelevant meaning.
Its wrapped in parchment, as if to ship.
The address line left blank.
If opened the ink runs red for I’ve pressed my heart;
To store it, save it, make it last.

Lastly lays a covered cage,
bird seed scattered on around the base.
The bird inside defines this walk, beginning to the end.
Dead or alive depends on time, the strength of my own species.
A blackbird, or a dove. Me or you, which is my freedom?

My bare feet wall this path alone.
Following the story it left behind.
Pacing the dropped regrets from my pocket back to start.
Counting my steps all the way to you.

Because of me you have been knocked to the dirt.
And where am I?
Well the self guilt has placed me beneath you;
covered in the **** and mud that still seems to hold you up.

Every tear and every cry of pain from that lovely face,
Is just another twisting stab to the heart with a dull blade.
Every comment and every reminder to what I speak,
Is more soil beneath your feet, dirt that grips my throat as I try to breathe.

I am already down; so please, please don’t send me further.
Each word: a new blow, new bruise upon the mind as I sink deep,
So place a noose around my neck to keep from loosing me.
I can’t slip through the fingers like the mud between your fists.

I’d rather give my last breathe to your saving grasp,
Than to the handfuls of dirt shoved behind each thought.
Either way I’m suffocating in time for one last word;
Sorry…

From beginning to end,
There are no gray areas.
In between it all lays truth,
Yet truth can often lie in between the fiction.

So where does this lead us;
Into a twisted reality? Or troubled dream?
A nightmare on earth that hides in hate and love?

No.
Rather a lack of understanding,
A clear view of the concept,
But a mere distance away from grasping it.

Everything and Nothing is abstract.
Shear works of art written in the documents,
Signed by the blood and tears.

The uphill battle,
Children pushed away.

The poker face,
Emotions thrown aside.

Lawyers. Stress.
Time stretched like a rubber band beyond elasticity.

It never snaps,
Your heart will stop thinking it might,
But it doesn't.

The hurt is distributed through my fathers stress.
The tears through my mother’s eyes.
All is lost, everything is gained.

With faces of youth in every scene,
The dream of peace passes mind.

The brother,
Staying quiet and still.
His eyes floating in the mixed level of emotions.

The sisters,
One with the scars at the heart of it all.
And the other too young to know what’s going on.

And me.

Too numb to notice,
Too careless to feel the pain.

Till it builds.

The knives of emotions come through the pores.
The ink falls from the fingertips onto the page.

There are no gray areas.
All of it is abstract.
Yet once again, all of it is nothing.

At the heart of it all.

What if I slept?
Not for those regular reasons,
But the irregular.
For the admiration of leaving reality
Only to wake up in my own world.
A world at peace, Never to wake again.
Would you care?

What if I lied?
Not to hurt or cause sorrow,
But the irrational.
For the acceptance of making reality
Only to hide what is really inside.
A man full of hurt, loneliness.
Would you see?

What is reality?
Not a world of the irregular or irrational,
But the contrary.
What is truth?
Not a word of what is right,
But a slip of what is needed.

For reality can be left,
Truths can hurt.
We can teach ourselves,
Break the happiness, Fake our way.
Its all a weapon, A way of life.
Whats not taught to us in the books.

Would you gladly care to tell me who I am?
The me you have become to know, have known to become.
Would you please show me where I should flee?
A place where the world no longer fades where I stand.
Would you?

Feel free to wake me when our existence is no more.
The reality is a lie,
A lie we have dreamed up.
Does that make it Tangible? Authentic? Or Exceptional?
Does that make us concrete?

So I’m stuck waiting,
Waiting on what others entitle life.
To me its a waste,
For I need something to call mine.
But this reality is all lies and back to dreams I fall.
The wait is over.
This is where I am secluded.

Would you even want to join me?
Like I said,
Do you even care?

A touch, her hand. I’m trapped.
I need out, room to breathe.
But all hope is lost.
Don’t ask me why, its just my nature.
And its hell.

She’s miserable, I’m her high.
But the feeling isn't mutual. The search for escape isn't equal.
Its a one-way mirror between us.
She see’s me, and I, well I see me.
Yet we both see someone completely different.

I’m not who she believes, not anymore at least.
Every stumble she lives through, the cuffs squeeze tighter.
Every fear she gains, the sentence becomes longer.
The cell slams shut. I’m stuck.
All signs are clear, well to me.

Freedom will bring pain,
yet the wait does the same.
Me?
Her?
That’s all that remains.