Our love were songs.

Unfortunately songs do not last forever.

The drums stops as my heartbeat stops pumping blood for you.

The guitar stings stops shivering as my skin learns to stop building mountains upon it.

The piano keys will stop turning as my eyes forgets locking to yours.

The singer sings the last word of hope as I stop my midnight whispers of your name.

The vinyl will not stop spinning as I hold on to the silence.

I recorded every song of us and I hope I stop replaying.

I am selfish for not appreciating what I have.
For what I had experienced.
For remembering the bad rather than the good memories.

Lingering for the missing,
for the lost,
for the forgotten ones that have forgotten me long before I started to.

I am foolish for praying for what I gave up to come back to me without an effort.

I am selfish and entitled for an explanation,
an apology,
a goodbye.

I built it all up to tear it down.
I have built mountains to turn them into dust.
I have built bridges to cut them down.

To destroy it all with my own hands.

I believe only a destroyer would only know how to repair.

I know that the scrap metal around me was once a beautiful sculpture, but I only remember how beautiful it was.

My hands that mold learned to melt.
My hands that fix grew to break.

They are what I have dared to know.

We are the children of children.

How old we get we are still trying to figure it out.

I've learned that the biggest mistake I could ever do to myself is to think that I know it all.

You can know a whole lot but you'll never know it all.

******* on pacifiers with wrinkled faces.

Sharing wisdom before knowing how to even crawl.

Drawn to the mother figure, the father's forgiveness.

Cradling the teachers.

Finding wisdom in students.

Take that pill to keep your promise.

Self medicating, mind exploding.

This is not all that is left.

Take that pill to forget.

Self medicating, mind numbing.

This is all that is left.

Misguided will I ever find a way.
Will I ever let go of the the thought of finding something or someone that is not lost or forgotten.
Filling an imagined void.
When I’m whole and doing almost alright.

There’s no void.
There’s no road.
There's no void.
There's no road.

Born I was tied to this world.
Strings tied around me.
Grasped by this orchestra.

I start to sing.
Singing along.
Playing these strings.
Together we play.
Together we pull.
Melody flows through us.
Harmonizing through love and tragedy.

Until I cut the string.
Until I stop singing along.
Until I reach the end of my song.
Buried under this coliseum without a hint of sound.