I woke up one morning,
And it was all gone.
No thoughts of you crept into my lonely mind,
Just ones and zeroes,
Just a picture,
what's done is done.

What do I want for Christmas?
I don't want.
How much do I love you?
I don't love.
All I want, is for the page to turn,
For my nothing to turn,
Into something.

I know now,  
Life is a series of short stories.
And as bad as I want to write my own,
I hand the pen to my fear and addictions.
Will I be alone?
I'm afraid.
Will I be forgotten?
My oldest fear.
Will life pass me by?
I won't allow it.

I will change,
If not for the best,
For me.
I will be the rain,
And wash away this,
Insecurity.

For all I know,
Is that I dont,
And I am no longer tied down,
By the ideas,
Of is,
And is not.

You are the smoke, filling my lungs.
You get my so high that I can't feel the pain.
You are my morphine, my acid rain.

I'm addicted, your once sweet touch now burns and eats away at my flesh.
I'm sorry but I am not sure if I can survive your love.

I will get out of bed,
When I am dead.

I would ****,
To be the one,
That you go to with your problems.

I would die,
To be the one,
That fixes them.

I know you've asked me to write,
Something as beautiful as life,
To convince her to stay,
But I've killed every good day.

I am high if I'm awake,
To cope with what the world takes,
I can't feel the sun anymore,
I can't hear the rains beautiful pour.

The silver lining dulled and died,
My hearts grown cold and angry.
I've tried to write you something sweet,
But I'm afraid it always ends tangy.

My home is where our souls meet,
Where there is an endless flock of stars above our heads and a sea of green beneath our feet,

My gods are your arms and the looks that you give me,

My heaven is knowing you will be okay when I am gone.

You are the smoke in my lungs,
Slowly climbing, to my brain,
the only thing, that keeps me sane.

For when the world is ending fast, you show me how to make it last.