Time is but a concept that we all fall for.
Time is just a rendition of
     a song the stars play by
Yet here we all are
     thinking we've got all the
            time in the world
While it slips by faster than
     you can say
            goodbye.

On this morning,
where the road's
reflecting gold

I think of all the
promises I've
made myself,
the sun, a draping
curtain over daybreak

and I wrap a scarf
around my neck
and hold my bony
hands
against my heart

It's October and
I've learned to love
myself again.

She’s waiting for a failure
that would turn her life around;
waiting for her lightbulb to burst
so she can buy another one;
waiting for her ink to dry
so she can use another pen;
waiting for her eyes to tire
so she can cry again

Until then, she’ll walk on, asleep,
waiting for someone–
waiting for the failure
that would wake her up
and push her out of bed

Oh, I’ve got guns for hands and I might’ve killed her out of passion.
Is it possible for skin-to-skin interaction to produce such electric friction,
enough to ignite these explosives awake?
Perhaps if you base it all on the violence,
the shattering, the sudden release of ethereal presence,
the full-blown eruption of all her emotions and everything in between–
Perhaps if you base it all on that, then you can cut my arms off of their sockets
and throw them out into the sea and I would be more than happy to oblige.
'Cause I’ve got guns for hands and I killed her out of passion and hers is my demise.

it hurts. it hurts like you never thought it could hurt, never imagined it could hurt. it hurts to be alone, it hurts to know that you don't have him anymore. and what does that even mean, anyway? to have him?
for me it meant safety. it meant never wondering how you were going to spend your free time. it meant always having someone to tell your secrets to, someone's hand to hold, someone to hold you, someone to kiss. it meant having someone to love.
it hurts, having all of that taken away. all of the circumstances, every reason that led up to it; they're all irrelevant because nothing makes it hurt any less.
it's kind of like walking around with a hole in your chest. a big, enormous, gaping hole where your heart used to be.
one time I cried at the orthodontist, and it was awkward and all - lying there, crying with some strangers hands in my mouth.
but it's been even worse at night, lying in bed, crying, when someone who used to be my entire world has their hands inside my chest, scraping out the half of their heart I'd become so accustomed to carrying around, I actually let myself believe it was my own.
it hurts. I know.
and I'm so, so sorry.