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In through the nose.
And out through the mouth.
The lungs stay the same, but the air-
The air is thinning.

If we knew we could use up all the oxygen,
would we breathe any faster?
If we knew you wouldn't wake up tomorrow,
would we go to bed sooner?

We want to tell the world yes,
but we we’d be lying to ourselves.
So why do we lie? Why can’t we just realize we want help,
And not the end.
For ending the misery is not the proper trade.

Once more through the nose.
Again out the mouth.
We mustn't plan our goodbyes.
Fill the lungs, lower the chest.

Inhale… The End.
March 23rd, 2012
Nov 2014 · 1.1k
Butterfly Effect
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?
November 30th, 2011
Nov 2014 · 474
Intermission
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.
October 27th, 2011
Nov 2014 · 347
To Whom It May Concern
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.
September 4th, 2011
Nov 2014 · 379
Buried Guilt
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…
March 28th, 2011
Nov 2014 · 330
"The Lives Of The Dead"
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.
Written March 10th, 2011 and inspired by the novel "The Things They Carried"
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?
March 18th, 2010
Nov 2014 · 227
All That Remains
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.
March 13th, 2010
Nov 2014 · 417
The Start Of A Good Day
The silent awakening, the morning texts,
A dreaded Monday, yet the feel of “okay”,
The early crank of the car, and we were on our way,
It was the start of a good day.

How did the laughter turn into sheer fear?
When did the joy vanish under pain?
Debris, Flashing lights, A choking smell,
All I remembered was the start of a good day.

Then the replay hit me like an airbag to the face,
The gutless fear engulfed me as the tears ran down my face.

A light;
That made all the difference.
For I followed til I heard the MICHAEL!
Then I saw the face of blinding lights coming on my way.

And that was it.
The hit had come
unrealized til the deflation showed me what was done,
A noise came from me
Blood curdling yell for no apparent reason,
A quick scan and everyone was safe,
And that was it.

For now the dream is an endless replay of the mind,
Labelled and forever remembered as “the start of a good day”.
March 3rd, 2010
Nov 2014 · 186
From A Distance
How can you show that you care?
How do you show that your there?
By how can friendship be what we share-
When its from a distance that which we sit and stare?

But it is of that distance which my feet will choose to walk,
Until that day comes we just continue to talk.

That through both our care we will see,
For I'll help you back when you fall to your knee’s.
Because this friendship we share, it must be,
Its not “from a distance” that tears at what you mean to me.
February 10th, 2010
Nov 2014 · 422
Ode To Insanity
O’ gracious mind, that stores the monster within,
The ill of soul feels that in life one can’t win,
O’ beaten heart, that does not tell praise from sin,
The lord would not have placed ‘insane’ in such men.

Thy inner head does burn with this gift inside of me,
The mental suffocation does help me feel so high,
They call me crazy?! Oh they know not what sets me free,
Its belief we grow to live, sadly we grow to die.

The sounds become outstanding, bringing leaks unto these ears.
The ink becomes overwhelming, hovering off the page.
The people become too much, making life a last resort.
And fire in my skull burns bright! I can’t stand this anymore!

Silence,
The lack of fight.
Peace,
The dim of light:

For I love all insanity that comes my way,
Because it makes life worth living each and everyday…
February 5th, 2010
Nov 2014 · 267
Ode To Memory
O’ Bountiful Mind,
Such a beautiful delight is the memory we store,
From childhood to now, fears to joyfulness,
Such a glorious creation, Gods masterpiece and more.

Yet I seem to – I mean – I stumble on the spot,
And – Ummm – Memory is something that can’t be bought.

O’ Internal Shrine,
We never fill up; instead our head stays an open door,
From that one first crush to that one first kiss,
Its wonder is a mystery down to the very core.

I have – I guess – I must have lost my train of thought,
For what I had in mind I seem to have forgot…
February 5th, 2010
Nov 2014 · 253
Ode To Shakespearean Sonnet
O’ Shakespeare and your beauty of sonnets,
Thou’s glorious works of art that **** thee.
Its strength grasp thy soul, shatter it to bits,
I just love how you try and ****** me.
Your words, they flow in such wonderful ways,
From you to the people, they ever flow.
Where doth thou run when seen the light of day?
Back to the cauldron from where thy once grew?
O’ thou’s attempts to be but such a bird
Yet stuck an ugly duck, ******* great awe.
You bring sight to the blind; to deaf, sounds are heard,
Death to the living; mutes left to gagging.
Thus I must credit your will and your time,
For like you, my life’s lost in this strict rhyme.
February 4th, 2010
Nov 2014 · 451
Open Window, Empty Sill
-Time-
Such an Underestimated element.
Setting People into place,
And placing no gaps in any life.

-The Fun-
It comes in waves, and as it pulls away,
You only wish you could ride with it.
Giving emotions that are expressed and held.

-The Mockingbird-
It landed on a window sill of mine,
Brought hope as I opened the glass to let it rest.
Leaving an open exit if it plans to fly away.

The time gets the better,
Bringing fun things to come.
But it seems only to dissipate,
When the mockingbird tries to rest again…

The fear comes in me,
The worry stays,
”What if I come home to an open window,
Empty sill?”

- Now I guess I know.
January 23rd, 2010
Nov 2014 · 389
Story Stitched At The Seams
Have you ever fallen in snow?
What of being pushed
And not of anyone but those you trust and know.
Is it only a dream…

Music is what makes me,
People are what confuse me.
I can live loving friends,
Yet still need someone to confide in.

Have you ever questioned the common heart?
What not of love but the silhouette of like
That mixed emotions do hide in such mental rampart.
Is it only how it seems…

If people could see I reside in me,
A life yet to know and I'm fine being free.
A dream as it seems though what does it mean,
For a story untold held stitched at the seams.
November 25th, 2009
Dear Love,
I was lost but now Im found,
But Im still blind and can not see,
Without you I would lose my way,
I need you to get through my day.

With every kiss I give and take,
I only hope your love for me isn’t fake,
Cause when Im with you my locked heart is yours,
And you have the key that opens the doors.

You build me up so don’t put me down,
Those deep dark blue eyes pick me up off the ground,
I can’t wait to sleep cause ill dream of you tonight,
And then think of you tomorrow til that day turns to night.

But as the sun rises I only hope,
That the breath you share with me doesn’t burn like a rope,
You’re asking me if our love will grow,
That’s for us to find out and only god to know.

Sincerely,
The one who cares.
September 2009
Nov 2014 · 508
King Of The Dumps
People in life want to have peace and freedom,
But no one in life can make things full of glee.
There are people in life with eyes of coal,
All sad and depressed, all just lost in a pit.
In these deep dark moments, all down in the dumps,
You make brand new friends with every lost soul.

When you’re down in the dumps you got to be smart,
Even though you make friends, things still fall apart.
I never fall in; I just seem to jump,
I play cards, listen to songs, and think about life’s flaws,
Write music, play songs, sleep, eat, and sleep.
And everyone believes that I’m the King of the Dumps.

I’ve been here so long that there’s no longer a way out,
I write so many songs that I’m beginning to lose count.
People I know talk to me about there good news and bad,
I’m a good listener but got no one to talk to,
When it comes to my problems I’m stuck in a slump.
Even though I didn’t ask to be, I’m the King of the Dumps
September 2009
When I’m bored and confused and have no where to go,
I sit down and think til my emotions just flow,
Seems that I wonder to places even God doesn’t know.

And when I listen to music I am up in the sky,
Music to me is like drugs to some guy.
It takes me to where I can be me,
I am wondering in this place where I am set free.

Although I am gone in this place with no cost,
Not all people who wonder are lost.

There’s things in this world that seem a little too real,
Life is boring and fast, no time for you to feel,
Love comes and goes like a well-broken deal.

But as I listen to music I am up in the sky,
Music to me is like drugs to some guy.
It takes me to where I can be me,
I am wondering in this place where I am set free.

Although I am gone in this place with no cost,
Not all people who wonder are lost.
September 2009
Nov 2014 · 604
Flashback
I was on my way just seeking a purpose,
When I saw a young boy ‘bout the age of three.
With short brown hair and eyes that seemed to glow,
He was playing innocent with only love to show.

I'm no longer able to see that brown-hair boy of three,
But in the reflection of my mind I see a three-year-old me.
With no problems, and no worries; just my head in the clouds,
I ran around happy because i knew i was free.

Look at me now, all those years gone to waste,
With these problems, and these worries, clouds darkened with haste.
The three-year-old me is inside me somewhere,
But he is lost and confused and i do not know where.

I've made a new friend and she’s never gonna leave,
As listen to her sing, I am off flying free.
Cause when I listen to music, I can again see,
Oh, It frees my three-year-old me…
September 2009
Nov 2014 · 235
Lost and Found
One lucky day I met a special girl,
If had only known she would patch me up inside.
I could tell by the way she looked at me,
She thought i was the one, but life often lies.

I had only just met her,
Wasn’t sure what to think.
I said not to worry, it would be okay,
I only had to stop and reconsider.

I now know the question,
That floated through her head…

What exactly is ‘okay’,
And what in life makes the world go round, What exactly is ‘okay’,
I am Lost and waiting to be Found.

A year went by and life seemed okay
I never forgot the girl I saw that day.
Those glowing eyes seeked me out once again,
So I gladly agreed not knowing the price id pay.

You waited for me so I thought it would last, But now Im just another guy in your past. I regret not doing the things I should’ve done, And now Im alone not having any fun.

They all say not to worry it will be okay,
But I still have that question,
that floats through my head…

What exactly is ‘okay’,
And what in life makes the world go round,
What exactly is ‘okay’,
I am Lost and waiting to be Found…(repeat)

I am Lost and waiting to be Found….
September 2009
Nov 2014 · 202
Spoken Like Wind
I wait, I Listen,
For the world is loud in its awe of day,
But its only heard best when all is silent,
And the lights go out.

I feel, I whisper,
For the wind cries out for all to hear,
But its misunderstood and left to only a mumble,
And the world sleeps.

Because I sit and wonder why the wind stays persistent,
For what it wants to share must be to us of some importance,
So then why do we bottle it up to no more than a sound,
So I opened the window,

The sound rushed in with a punch of emotion,
Enclosed the room with nothing but chatter,
The mumbles became clear and the wind became heard.

I sat and listened to the words untold,
As thoughts and actions drowned my head,
All was clear and fine in mind,
Then silence, and nothing but the peace of night.

I will not say what I heard from those spoken,
For thou may know when thou is ready to listen,

But as I am the wind, left blowing in the night,
I speak in mumbles and seem sadly mistaken,
For my words get twisted from thought to tongue,
But thou may not be heard if one doesn't open their window…
August 22nd, 2009
Nov 2014 · 205
Is it Mind or Is it Heart?
Love, for what I had yet fear.
The sound I still long to be near.
Can a kiss tell or can it ****.
The thought which makes my heart stand still.

To keep the world smiling, a job too big for one.
Yet a job not impossible to get done.
But I was that only one, or so it seemed.
So the pressure built, if you know what I mean.

A breaks what I need, yet she sits in my head.
A silhouette of a girl keeps me up in my bed.
I need to fill this blank canvas alone.
Yet I’m turning to everyone to help me see what is shown.

I listen for those drums, to show me the rhythm.
And feel for those footsteps, to guide me along.
I search for those songs, that speak a thousand words.
And write what I find, what comes out of this mind.

So the three roads ahead are now what I face.
I sit and I wait not knowing what to chase.
For I find no drums, nor footsteps, still long for a song.
Understanding for answers to what choice is not wrong.
August 23rd, 2009
What say you on the matter?

For,
To say the Pilgrims were not of the Americas,
Or thereby American,
Is False.

For,
To say the life force is not moving, pulsing,
Or thereby alive,
Is Wrong.

For,
To vocalize a sonnet as written,
And not vary tone or infliction from line to line,
Or to sing the Song of Madness.
But not feel the grimy groove,
Is flat out and most indescribably improper and in dire need of revision.

But to break off from the meter,
In travels that lead on out,
Progressing into a voyage of the vastly uncharted,

Is to paint a magnificent beauty,
Or write a tale with uncanny comparatives to a Huck.

And to forthwith stand from the bow of the vessel, not the stern, to say when they say, “Nay.”

From the start, on the breaking dawn of this episode, a new life seemed only natural to resurrect;
A chapter to rewrite that had too long needed a rewrite.
And so perceived and attempted it was.

Then, from the inner yearnings, came a need to profess what so vividly troubled.
But in unsure footings, the tongue could not confess.
But in undone attire, the feet would not uphold.
Repressed.
Halt!

The body comes to rest.
Lain upon the threshing block, to gather.
And preface a proclamation of the more just cause.
Ideals certain to be less casually fit than their predecessors’.
An ultimate theory of outlook.

Thus, this is my prelude, to the coming of age battle, and my constitution.
With most sincerity, this is what I proclaim.

The Right of Understanding.
—The act that in any case, every account and depiction of any story and thereby situation, should be heard, allotted, marked, and understood in full. It should stand, unbiased, before all, prior to any fore coming or hasty decision: the act of listening without interpretation by a lonely mind; of not intruding upon or giving up immoral ground in adherence to a person; of not spreading hell, nor involving the uninvolved in personal matters; of letting people share both the tangible and intangible, without hesitation, or living in fear being persecuted and/or misrepresented; and the understanding of every individual soul.—
The Right of Understanding.

The Right of Albatross.
—The act of grieving over loses, and accepting that things will not be the same. The act that time is so deathly important in revival that the absence of its constant equilibrium will cause damage; of stability in the face of fear, whatever that may be, or the fear that is eminent and sure to catch us all in its foot snares; of compassion to the suffering and those who have lost it all but continue to rise again and prove the statistics, kept and known only by the creator, wrong; and of being unsettled in the grey areas. For no one soul can truly ever make it alone.—
The Right of Albatross.

The Right of Acerbity.
—The act of saying what’s on your mind, no matter how pugnacious or acrid it may come out to be. The act of bluntness in dealings, without further discretion, but only after retched hate has built and anger tormented past its due date; of civility towards others in the postmortem; of biting your tongue until absolutely necessary, and only through well founded intent, however deluded the intent may be to ascertain such conclusive foundation, and of arrogance in expression and language for the betterment of others. The act of ripping out the orthodox for a radical reckoning of souls.—
The Right of Acerbity.

The Right of Escape.
—The act of fleeing tragic misunderstandings, for the sake of saving face, and to make great hast. The act of thinking contrary to the proof, setting a pricey wage on your personal beliefs, dissolving unknown barriers and outward influence, and claiming your stake; of being alone to the mind in hopes of evaporating the exorbitant data; of basking in the glory that swift feet have brought; of turning the corner, and establishing new peace of mind to comfort the once boxed in soul.—
The Right of Escape.

The Right of Pursuit.
—The act of allowance to a pursuit in anything, with the freedom of beliefs, and articulation. The knowledge and acceptance that not all pursuits end, nor will they ever on the intended terms. End may or may not be reached, but the communion of trial, even if failed, is all that is needed. No hatred should come of a man’s choice in their personal pursuit; merely the acknowledgment and appreciation.—
The Right of Pursuit.

The Right of Assertion.
—The act which is commonly referenced, and includes great similarity to, the speeches given on the basis of freedom, with the truth that prior most follow up to the same base rule. The acts that no tyrant or thereby abusive parent should, or has the right to, downsize or ignore the declared speech of his child. Nor should one be angered by the truth that so passively flows through their ears. The right to free a man’s mind without a show of emotions becoming of us; just the listening of and rock like appearance of the stern look upon agreement.—
The Right of Assertion.

The Right of Compliance.
—The idea that man-kind can fit in with man-kind; the ideal template that brother and sister is known and used universally, not just selectively, as a label of people; that an atheist can walk into a church of any religion and fit in among the plenty to find a new assurance and home; that no restrictions are made to shun or cross out those unwanted in group, club, education system, religious aspect, or government area in question; that all of man-kind fits in anywhere they so choose when they are there under the prefaced agreement of good and strong intent. After all, intent is nine-tenths of the law. Lastly, that people can never feel out of place or lost in life.—
The Right of Compliance.

The Right of Deception.
—The knowing that man-kind can easily be duped by the specious mind; that promises aren't always kept, and that some stories aren't always true. Often times, there even a change in maxim just when we all become accustom to order; the idea of flowing emotion from one betrayal subsequently falling and spilling into right into line: next in life; that man could plainly be trying to be grandiloquent and fascinate rather than honestly working to be even with other men; that imagination can take over, yet leave a trail of crumbs leading toward reality, and remain in such a constant comatose state until life seems to become better; the mere acknowledgment that the mind can fully overpower the body.—
The Right of Deception.

It was that long ago that we were invincible,
Or too long ago to remember the good ol’ days,
Or too long ago to remember how past, present, or future,

We would always be friends.

No rivals could break us,
No terror could render fear,
No mountain was too big to climb,

We would always be untenable.

Every time we thought that,
Every time we felt safe,
Every time we leaned closer,

We grew older,
Time set in,
Tearing us apart.

As we fell apart,
Thoughts got the better,
Days turned as years past,
And our minds now seem to confess,

So here we are,
Once more staggered in unity,
And for the last time linking arms,

To exalt a power high above our reign,
And sign the final treaty,
Forever binding our humble beginnings,
Before the long journey,
That will, in retrospect, be a mistake…

But at least they will know exactly what We have to say.
A Co-Written Piece with a very good friend and poet Adam Gresham on June 24th, 2009
Nov 2014 · 291
Fear that's "Not So Sweet"
Her perfect world I aimed to create,
Problems she held onto I wanted to lock away,
That’s all I ever wanted for her.
All I ever tried to do.

But I can remember the sound,
A small whimper.
As if the past inside had caught up with her,
I was the problem. I was the cause.
I could see me reflection in every drop of water,
Image by image absorbed by my shirt.

Why was the search for safety still in me?
I was the reason.
Why did escape still rest on my shoulder?
I was what provoked.

What I want is not what I deserve.
I am given too much but never put out enough back.
Who gave me that right? To be such an ***;
So blind, and so Ignorant.
Yet she sticks around and stays,
It kills me to see that it kills her.

The perfect world I aimed to build
shattered in the frozen wind.
The loss of feeling in my bones
of escaped problems in the cold.

But I hold her.
Because I fear if I let go I’ll never feel her body again,
I fear I’d never hear that laugh I love once more,
Fear never to see that smile that brings good tears,
Or those eyes that tell a story:
A story no longer of her own.

Its fear.
Fear that makes me worry as the world moves on without me,
And nothing is left with me but an echo
Of those same words smeared across the walls of my skull.
January 31st, 2011
Nov 2014 · 361
Prototype
Lying under a leaking roof,
Just counting the drops til it caves.
Been walking on a rotten bridge,
Counting the steps to the fall.

Just a ticking bomb of worry,
As my hopes just waste away.
The longer time holds on,
The more I want to let go of it all.
January 24th, 2011
Nov 2014 · 368
Entitled Secrets
Breathe in.
Reflect. Relive.
Let go.

Dive into the unconscious,
Unlatch the hidden secrets,
Climb the weak walls laid built,
Fight to see the other side.

Break through the shattered glass,
Crawl careless across the shards,
Tear the stitched seams,
Depressed emotions, together hide.

Tense up.
Choke. Remember.
Drown in it all.

Fears that rip through even our best dreams,
Helpless, Alone; The stories peak,
Brick by brick the memories fall,
A life caught up in all our screams.

Cause we can live it fully blind,
Or at quick glance fully see,
It’s the Broken Past that makes us,
The pieces our puzzled future needs to breathe.

Breathe out.
Vent. Relax.
Move on.
December 12th, 2010

— The End —