Justified demise of another set of longing eyes,
is it that I'm comprised of a cacophony of longing lies
telling me I'm no good,
that no one should love me, how could they?
A roughly carved shape of a soul and the hole left by selfish doubt
a window to a world of reasons reasoning why I should be left out.

The continual fear that love is a trap designed to erode the calloused halls of frozen walls that carry reassuring tones that the cold is consistent,
that warmth is insistent on melting our walls and making survival an emotional chore when we could just avoid it all. And yet despite the comforting embrace of psychological hypothermia, we want more.

How can I know I am moving when
the air around me is ghostly still
the room surrounds me, white and chill
and the sun peeps over the windowsill.
I lean on my talent as though it would carry me
and place blame on my family
as though they would harry me
but no one but I can defy
these workings of fate, and
I'm under obligation of no one to be great,
but my aim is to be what
I know I must be, I am not a wheel
to drive an engine I am the blade defending,
I'd die before that I love
and need no threat from below or
blessing from above.

I arrived as a child of dust and from it I derive no meaning
other than to look for such a thing
that has no answers, advancing only
at the mercy of my own whims.
I must find things I love and feed them
and in turn connect myself
to the world and breeding these passions
I'd fashion a place, my memory retrieving,
and feel fascinated and young
like the inner child I'm starting to believe in.

Horizon of heard words bring
feelings
new and relieving
receiving
messages from myself
to be passed to someone else.

Like birth I breathe my
first lesson
in learning a new obsession.
A whole new world
completed by curiosity
and only in generosity of voice
was I shown the choice we each make
to hide and to fake
to fear that we are
no more than animals with complex speech
and we reach desperately to find
some notion that we are tools
but in truth we are without rules
and can experience as much as we are willing to believe.

Hope is for the hopeful
pain is for the hurt
fear is for the child inside
sweat is for the work
song is for the listener
and voices for the listened
Home is for where love resides
only found inside.
In the images we create,
we ****** a part away from fate.

In each act we are alive
and in between our quiet minds
will find some reason we are silent
thoughts turned dark, thoughts turned violent.

Prayer for the faithful
soaring for the soul
how can we bestow these gifts
isn't that the goal?
Not to ask the bird to fly,
the wolf to bear its claws,
but to ask the kind to fight
and the killer to know remorse.

To change one mind might seem so modest
of a billion minds on the planet,
But even to change a single mind
would improve the world we inhabit.

Tuesday: **** was black and smelled of sulphur.

oh wait, this is my **** diary.

For those of you interested,
I'm indigested. Well, I suppose we're all indigested.

I'm off the water, on lemon and lime
and wouldn't you know it combined
with my strange state of internal affairs
to create a concoction that's up in flares.

They found undigested
gum and erasers
an unopened packet of quavers
several loose fillings
and an unopened pack of heavy duty nasal razors.

Alright I might be embellishing the truth a little
the situation's been fickle,
but my research mostly finds that
eating is the issue.

The battle's done
the coast is clear
gone now are those we once stood near
we walk alone
and so to say
some that once slept now lie awake
and only memories fill their home.

So grit the teeth and dance in pain
and find a light,
so you may never lose their names.

I am the king of a crumbling castle,
a hassle to hold but I'm old and I'm scared
of the bold young world that sits around me
surrounding my vision, emissions of life
like entities born in flame, that drift astray
from parents ensnared in the glare of a television screen.