You'll love me as long as I say
the things you want me to say.
And if I don't tell you you're lovely,
your love seems to fade away.

But you'll love me if I know the way,
the way that I've learnt to convey,
to speak in the way that you taught me,
so your love isn't taken away.

And it's making me feel quite lonely,
all these words that you're making me say.
I don't even think that you'd know me,
if we spoke when you couldn't see my face.

The news is a c#%&
That son of a b@#$!
They don't give a f$%!
about talking s&#@
That girl is a s!@$
and that dude's a d!@&
But I blame this boll@&$s
On tabloid pr!@&s

We are children of stars, all of us each,
if you look way back far beyond memory's reach.
Past fire and lightning, spirit and beast,
our atoms return, and stars we complete.

The greatest poem I ever wrote
was the note I left to a future friend,
a wish, I hoped, that would project
my hopeful mind, and sense of depth.

The greatest thought I ever spared
a future in a dream I'd shared.
A piece within a scene complete,
the place where mind and spirit meet.

The greatest step I ever took,
to take the time enough to look,
to raid my thoughts and scour my mind,
and on my trail my friend I find.

The greatest friend I ever knew.
The friend a thousand times consumed.
By glowing screen and jingling bell.
My friend, I wish, would be myself.

To me it's strange, the way they speak.
The poets of the ivory peaks.
The ivory's gone, but it's some other thing
I can't afford. That luck won't bring.

Their words are nonsense, their tales obscure,
and I endure
strange sentences and structures
to be a part, and perhaps procure
an understanding of the
heavy handed
application of articulation.
The inebriation of contemplation
of words and rhymes.
Perhaps it will come to me in time.

It is the story of my life.
An unavoidable,
like pain, like light.
The door is open, the hands invite
but the hearts are frozen, with hands that write
about love and romance, pain and longing
where is the tale of the brothers belonging
and sisters working the marathon strings
of shifts to pay to raise a child.
The horrors of a society gone wild.

Where is the working class writer of poems
the wordsmith trained on the limited knowing
where is the voice of those rarely heard?
Where are their stories? Where are their words?

I don't care what other people think,
the only opinion I need is my own.
And I form it in the echo chambers
of my cold and lonely home.

I don't trust what other people say.
I've been hurt by everyone I've known.
People are mostly out for themselves.
I'm better off working alone.

People don't listen when I talk.
Don't hear my dreams and fears.
And when I share the things I think,
people often disappear.

And when I give a friend advice
and they don't do what I say,
well how can I help my friends through life?
I don't know another way.

People and I have nothing in common.
They don't understand my pain.
I used to want people around me,
but now I just move away.

Please feel free to leave some critical feedback on the poem.

This is poem written by Lisel Mueller (according to google). I just wanted to share it because I couldn't find it on here and it's one of my favourite poems ever.

Doctor, you say there are no haloes
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affliction.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don't see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.

Fifty-four years before I could see
Rouen cathedral is built
of parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors: fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three-dimensional space,
wisteria separate
from the bridge it covers.

What can I say to convince you
the Houses of Parliament dissolves
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don't know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent. The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, lilies on water,
above and below water,
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair
inside my brush to catch it.

To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and change our bones, skin, clothes
to gases. Doctor,
if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands
to claim this world, blue vapor without end.

I'd rather be with friends
than on the receiving end
of another certification
of my value in the tainted nation
fated to find its way back to masters
who offer no explanation
as to why they cast this draining paper
into a world that could be castless
if only we checked our own behaviour.

I'd rather be with friends
than working on a promised future
my abuser talking of a nuisance youth
and pointing fingers saying 'useless'
while they stuff us into suits
and boots that bare no resemblance
to the feet that marked our ascendance,
I seek not vengeance for the things we lost
I simply wish to reduce the cost
of being what we've become
cold and lost
and to continue what we've begun
to press on despite the cost and animosity
and all the atrocities
despite this we strive to build a world
that tempers its ferocity
and lets me be.

With friends.

I have found them, once or twice.
A search that lasts for all my life.
Sorrow comes from such small numbers.
But the finding happens more as I wander.

I have found them. They have spoken.
They are aliens, but not from space.
Solar silence they have broken.
Voice of sunshine, ray of hope in this darkened world.
To light a path, or a hurtful past. I climb my way out at last.

I have found them.
They surround when
I call out into the night.
When I am truthful, when I set right
the seating of my heart
the beating tears apart
a door that stood for all of time, the eternity of the past.
And now the cold is in
it's this thing, it's fast.
Like crystal lightening,
it's heightening my senses,
and numbing the frightening memories of past offences.

I have found them, my forlorn friends.
My fickle feelings.
Their weary voices, honest.
An echo still believing.
Together we talked, words held forever.
I have found them.
And never will they leave me.

When water became water, not lemon and lime,
I drank for the pleasure, not to pass time.

When bread became bread, not pizza and cake,
I'm hearing my stomach, and it needs a break.

When danger becomes danger, not fear on a screen,
I stopped checking corners for foes unseen.

When fire becomes fire, not mirrors and smoke,
my friends sit together, and nurture our hope.

When food becomes famine, and future unknown,
we'll treasure our friends, instead of our homes.

There's a
walk-in
dungeon in my head.
I go there to talk.

To the demons at my door,
the once I would implore.
But I just go to talk.

And I ask them how I
know them so well
yet so little about myself.
They say;
"Son look around you,
the flames they surround you,
you've been going through hell."

GUITAR CHORUS

A day,
or two,
running through my mind.
They said the pain would fade in time.
I should'a know that they were lying.
I should have know they were...

My friends, they're there, I know they care,
but through the pain I still compare,
their human flaws with the abuse
of a world that I once knew.

Look at you, you lost animal.
You tear down anything that has a chance of being good,
then sit in the shadow of what can only be bad,
and tell me the world worries you.

They got me an umbrella,
to save me from the rain.
Shame, I thought, that same resource
which gives us life,
and tickles light,
in beautiful ways portrays the city at night,
as I look through my window,
a shame that we should hide so vehemently
from the cold and adverse,
from the tears of the earth
that give it a life,
that wraps it in blue in the great void of night.

I hope one day,
the rains wash away
the fakeness and faces,
and unhealthy places
and carries us to a place
that's less graceless.
I hope we can suffer a few small droplets per day,
of that purified element
that washes the all-consuming comfort away.

There's a scale at which rocks crumble.
A time by which the old leaves tumble.
A cadence to the clap of thunder.
A pace at which new grass will wander.

There is a scale at which man feeds,
and such a scale would have no need,
if hunger could be left behind.
Then maybe in another time,
We'd walk with ants, and grow with pines.
We'd swim with comets, drift with planets,
and maybe curb our eating habits.

We'd fly with bees, and swim with titans,
and our descendants would enlighten
and inform our view of Earth
of all nature and its worth,
and down to every single cell,
we'd love the earth and treat it well.

Forgive the failings of the parent, the flaws of our design.
Only if we accept our nature can we enjoy what's left of our time.

The poison left in our blood, corrosion of the self,
pain accepted as a norm, obligations on no one else.
They say the mind is the strongest prison,
walls of darkness and chasms within them,
and a fear that pain came first because pain comes always,
and as we peep out into the empty hallways
we see in their endless doors
an infinite capacity for more
and why would any weary traveller
step out into such foreboding
places to explore?

At first the poison seems for life. It runs in our blood and rains from the heights.
But nothing is without cost and the lie must be maintained.
We follow the orders held with us from the day we got our name.
But the thicker the poison and the hotter it burns, the stronger the antidote and the more we can learn.

Pain becomes progress,
a diabolical fuel,
a tool heavy to swing,
but one that will bring
greater transformation
and let's turn bad memories
into useful information.

As days age and sink beneath the Earth,
my friend he walks with confidence in his work.
And we work together, worlds apart,
a mind of methods and honest hearts.
Stood as frame to scenes of wonder
and together we'd press through rain and thunder,
the will of gods and wrath of planets
and together we form constructive habits.

Witness of a world asunder,
and under the impression that there is more to be done
we have fun, on the run from the eyes and the engines
that pursue the constant contention, driven
by the sad ambitions of those around us,
but our friendship will ground us, from mountain to river.
And a unique brand of faith shall deliver
the voice that is still worth hearing,
as the time of rest is nearing,
I hope we can work together on our many optimistic feelings.

They think it's love, until the lust fades,
thing it's good, until the looks fade,
Think it's smart, until it hurts,
Think it's broke, until it works.

Don't begrudge children where they were born.
They don't make em the same anymore.
The curse of the new slave, wrapped around their mind,
loyal to the poison that degenerates their mind.

Folding thoughts like origami
fortress of the hectic army
a sea of fans cheering wildly
and nothing certain waning mildly.

A pile of notes and bloated files of writings,
the little terrors these forgotten worlds invite in.
A choir of friendly voices turning choices into stressful hourly junctions degrading your peace and eroding your mental function.

I write in lines the complex as the simple but between them find a blurred reflection, a swirling mirror in which I seek answers but find only an ever increasing number of questions.

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 that 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.

A poem a day keeps the doctor away.
Get flowing and pay tribute in text
don't get vexed that you're now in a challenging place
just relax and give it your best.

The turbulent scene is a flurry of fiends
but you're fine if you write the lines
you'll be safe from the clutter and strife of things
as long as you put in the time.

Do I rhyme, do I rhyme, do I redefine?
With the keys that I clatter
do I shape black matter
do I channel the ink, do you think?

Well I try, I permit
for a time I will sit
and get to the bit
where I rhyme on the slither
of white placed before me
the colour that bores me
until the words hit.

Are you living like you're fine but the situation's wrong?
Were you living for the day but now just tag along?
You wait on destiny and fate but life just seems a list of dates?
I think the situation calls for a fresher set of traits.

If you're a winner or a wooer, or jack-the-lad ****-sure,
or a beauty or a beast or a being of grand allure,
then the situations good and you'll keep up in the race,
but if you're not, on you trot, you're not worthy of this space.

I say, the current state of affairs, it's not approved and it's not fair,
but there's hope some place out there.
The situation can be changed but sure as day you'll stay the same,
So change it all and take a gamble,
Make it you the world can't handle,
push right through and find a space,
nurse your dreams in a brighter place.

I'm cursed with a terrible mindset
I forget all the good of this world
There's evil afoot, and I know of such
but of love am I rarely reminded.

I long for the abstracted season,
when the world's undone at the seams.
When wild gods come knocking, the cradle stops rocking
and insolence bows down to reason.

I yearn for the coming of laughter.
For the chill wind to tell me the tune.
The song still resounding thereafter,
as we walk past the relics and runes.

I'd show you the gift of the rainstorm.
But few would sit and see.
The Otherland is all around.
But no one's got the key.

This fiend, he's black
but not in colour.

He tracks: not you
but your brothers' brother.

He wins and jeers
and sits and cheers
and loses and who says
strange words that confuses.

But for all his whim
and dashing trim
he's bound up, wound up,
he's ready for sin.

This skin he bears, drained and cold,
grows thin with wear, and frees his soul.

The Prantercalt lives inside
he's cosy, got a stellar ride,
but anger burning,
envy churning,
these the weapons at his side.
Don't let him out,
he'll run about,
and you'll find your mind'a turnin.

A muse to darkness, candle that frays,
the bud of the rose plant
sullies the brave.

A kiss under veil, decorum deceit,
the seed has been planted
and curdles beneath.

Like vines they entangle
the voice of the saint
thy soul they shall strangle
and crush, a
restraint,
chokes
the wind
of

breath comes back for a moment,
the wind howls wild for it has been defiled,
the fiend persists with ashen words
but howls protect from unholy verse.

Your wildest dream, hearts desire.
these things you've seen inside my fire.

You walked away and yet
she stands before you
her words still trickle in,
and then they floor you.

I stabbed myself in the face today.
Not literally.
With a bouquet of flowers.
I like to smell them. It was nice.
Pumped my self with drugs.
Sugars and oils and processed blood.
I'm pretty sure it effects my functioning.
Too much and you can't move.
And when I lie there, I see the roof.
It's blank. No one looks at it because it's blank.
It's blank because no one looks at it.
And I stare at that roof and of course, it stares into me.
We connect, we understand.
And I load up the laptop and sit there for days.

Oh well. Who am I harming?

The wind is cream, it's scent fruit yogurt.
The rain the ash of a kindled comet.
The sun a thrill on planets face,
and winters chill in mellowed chase.

A flower's charm may draw you near.
Beware the bliss, the alluring veneer.
Darkness ripens in a world like this.

Break, my fingers can't stop
the Shake, fight the sandman
that Face, a grin of pure evil
don't Trace, the lines of the devil
he Takes, the girl who smiles
her Brace, the teeth are wild
and Stage, your own undoing
a Mage, a mood is brewing
a Rage, a storm is on
the Waters, he's coming he's coming
don't Flaunt her.
It's you that's running your time, tap tap
bleeding it out like wine and water
a rose he dines alongside, it flows
come gather your manly pride, but you're froze.

Hold your breath. Explode. Put it to the test.
Sleep. Rest. Dive. Go deep.
Must break the sheath. Deny you're weak.
The futures bleak, for those who hide.
Those who wait. Grate your teeth.
They who sleep, buried deep
Them that run, find your fun in
what got you running to begin with, the
Revolutionscaryness
risk of unawaryness
chase the chance to advance
and romance the possibility of fruitful fairy tales.

What's wrong with this? I'm used to it.
Doesn't mean that it won't fit.
But I want more, something obscure.
I want to tell a story.

But I'll set out on that journey
only to arrive back in my world
I blame myself.
It's not so bad.
This world's fantastic.
Its just, you see,
you know, I'm lost for words.
It's good, but blurred. Absurd.
You'll only hear what's intended. You get life's blurb.
You're given freedom of winding cages.
Take this fruit, It's just for you!
I'd like a different set of rules, roll again.
We talk of chains, but who's to blame?
So take them off, have a dream. It's not such a pretty scene.
Unfold, place of mythic founders, and beasts that sit at limits passed.
Make a world that's twice as fast.
Draw my maps and hoist the flags.
Make a world and let me stab.
Boil one up back in my lab.

Sadly, the crew's out. No flags are sailin.
Gladly I bring her in, but she's thin n failin.
Turn on her side and see she's flat, my world, you'll say.
But I'll get better for that.

One day you made a choice
and felt that you'd done right
but now you fear
your eyes and ears
had twisted up the light.

Blinded now I see,
a timid child, the inner me.
I've crossed my roads
to come ashore
for more I wish I had,
more words and songs
to sing along
not memories I have.

I made a choice
I made it wrong
I'll sure be there again
long as I know
I shot for love
and think I made a friend.

One notch and straight, decided fate.
Then loose and look, another's took.
A visor up, one on the floor
the naive put it up to four.
The boulder crash
and rip of leather
the quiver's gone but not
too slow
comes back the bow
and arrow tip,
and tearing through
a savage eye
that's number five that he decides.
But now another's tagged his throat
and down he goes, and so he knows,
that its not smart to mess about
with sticks and stones and long bows.

A mind, I'm trying to find a mind
to read to help me get refined,
so that my guise may come to hide
behind my shallowness of mind.

But friends are few, and far between
a while it's been since I have looked upon them,
so I'll love the world
a little less while I'm without them.

Still I'll push on, borrow a breath
to test the mind out of context
to get to know someone I've made
but I will slow with each delay.

And now I write in Jic and Saw
my people are in pieces
I might just try to talk about
completely different species.

For those you know cannot be faked
but you can take a part and break
the pieces off until you have
a species for the minds you make.

I'm a sadist, guilt and remorse evadist
put my dark twist, on the folk
down in their gravies
resurrect em, clambering
shackled remains,
liberate thee,
run free in my domain.
De lib er ately
gliding, I'm death's author
and the last note
in the cacophony slaughter.
I'm the angel of death
and as you draw your last breath
know that I'm trying my best
to compensate for this theft
with more thieving, your grieving's
making my eyes sting
no reprieve in
believing, I'm only deceiving
in the heart of your very own body and mind
an inner evil, its seething
you know you can't hide
so break down and surrender
call on your defenders
and when the heavens aren't parted
the party gets started
there's no angel, descending
smiting at will
just my corpses, feasting
I'll send you the bill.

I'm a rectified nut. An idea ****.
I'm fine, as long as I hide the signs.
It's whispering lines in my sleep
that makes my secrets
hard to keep.
I'll try. but really just don't care
I don't care if
you stand and stare
I'll wear a tutu
get your own
and it goes quiet
and I'm alone.
The fizzy clouds and fluffy pop
this lucid world
confuse me not
for I am paper, you are rock
and I'm the key
and I'm the lock.
Pick up the pace and race on forth
I'm bored, this world just won't move forward.
"Mundane, find I
the sounds of day."
Good lord, don't judge by what I say.
It's true, we met when we were young,
But since then we've not got along,
You choose I and I choose We,
I think your mind is alien to me.

The inebriation of exhalation as the wild beast burns it's gut.
A trampling hoof that guides aloof this creature's weathered foot.
Time again a gait that fails
the weathered engine derails.

The other follows, a steady pace,
pursuing subtly an unfamiliar face.
Their paths crossed not without reason
though looking now it cannot see them.
What past has taught the future taunts with,
its exhausting, this furious pursuit of treats.
It helps the creature to it's feet.

What east feeds, west shall feast on.

The water offered, soon enough gone.
And though the west one was defeated,
it smiles in gratitude, almost sweetly.
But deep inside, the fire burns
the lessons learned are lost
as winter comes with a hunger born of frost.

Binary beasts, slave to each other.
Two wayward children split from their mother.

Sleepy.....       I'm.... a
tired, type. The hype of life
reminder....     right?

Fired, if i don't wake....      on time.
But I.....   I don't deal...
                                                   with stress.....      and strife.

A broker in knives, for slicing ice.
It melts much faster
in little bites.

Lead me on this frightening
path of lightening
in a world that's getting faster
on a journey to disaster
without permission of the master
the plan will fracture.

We ourselves invite to rapture
and the laughter of the one thereafter
as we still ignore the lesson
on our mission of compression
turning days into seconds.

I relax, because I care
not because I care not.
The day is long and life is patient
Be the ball and chain of nations.

My neighbour's hand is on my porch.
The porch that's on my neighbour's land.

My seat is in my planet's sun,
its fun, to play out in the heat.

This summer home upon the roof
the proof you need not be alone.

The garden's through my landlord's study.
My landlord, who's my buddy's buddy.

I've got the time to call and chat
but that I need not do, in fact.

I live five paces from my friends
no calls nor sends, I see their faces.

Our little city, above the street,
up thirty feet the world is pretty.

I do not crave the land below
I'm high up on my magic meadow.

The Dungeon           Calls
The Dungeon           sings
In wincing                tones
of wicked                  things,
the entrance             looms
The doorway's          dead
The wailing               wins
and claims your head.

You run away,
you don't look back.
You know what's peeking through the cracks.
Not one to bare the light of day.
It waits, beyond
while you decay.

The Dungeon howls.
The dungeon's sweet.
The dungeon send you off to sleep.

It's safe, this place
where you reside.
Out there you fear
sunlight collides
with ghastly skin
and telling eyes
so let them get on
with their lives.

Noise-synced delirium
Acidic injection
objection! Too loud
impassive perception's
important to render the silk from the fiend
The synths coming at you
with sawing and beams
and there, pristine
the song of the axe
the splitting of atoms
they're tuning the parallax
revving the tendon
the chord they depend on
the pipe of the warlord
and howl of the warhorde, stampeding
pounding the earth it's a drum
and the thrum of the piper
who's flashing his guns
and valkyries, mounted,
join in the rush
and then hush
the clouds seizing
the chance to combust
and to shed a tear
or a thousand drops
of ecstasy
onto the trampled crops.

Synchronize my family
and feed them to the wind
let their fevered hearts glow bright
upon my wired wings.

Anaesthetize paralysis
indulge in wave analysis
and stomp your feet and pump your fist
upon my wired wings.

Send the signal from the ground
to the twisting ceiling
that's when the feelings bounce around
upon my wired wings

You're flying out on gifts of fire
and living on the wind
so crank it up and find the wire
that leads to sonic wings.

Shower in the sea of wishes
hear the mountains sing.
When wind coils and earth fissures
beside re-wired beings.

The slender shades that eyes evade.
Pushing, rolling, breaking, fixing.
Working hard, draining days.
Thrashing, mauling, tweaking, cringing.
Crying pleas, the beggars' seal,
a veteran voice of tired appeal.

The pheromones of filthy beasts,
riches of the silver peaks,
a cocktail made to quench the thirst of the class that comes in first.
And off with the shades in a wooden hearse.

They find the fact the sun will shine down into worlds
of salt and lime a relieving sign, of better times,
but sedated is this state of hope and with it their ambitions broke.
Light indeed is what they are, of coin and health and lands afar.
And in this state of steam and shadows,
they long for rules and signs and arrows.

Again, it comes, with stabs, and gaps, and drags, day, by day, you wait, with hope, that you, not broke, but a, phase of life, and not, condemned, or shunned, but truth, be told, if not, from fault, you're getting, old, and that, don't change, and soon, estranged, you'll roam, in search, of what, you lost. It is, with pain, I can inform, the human form, its not for life, least not our life, but each others, and that we must, be kind, lest we find, not helping, hands, but, roaming feet, and faces, that we'll never meet.

The people I see, the young and the free
They dance and they sing in blissful retreat.
Their lives are a sample of pure liberty
And mine an example of firmly fixed feet

I grew up alone, in this I am blessed
I know of the darkness and it knows me best
My friends I found waiting beside the far lights
I wouldn't have seen them without those dark nights.

I feel like the fuse has already burnt.
The engine backfired, old meat past expired
I feel like a liar, pretending to be, pretending to see
what it is they believe they are doing
with their endless consumption and moving
their only function, save but to breathe
is to make our lives harder, or enforce beliefs.

The reality is, its in human nature
to skip the sad memories of our bad behaviour
and think of the times when we looked our best
convince ourselves that we're flawless and blessed.

I won't have such good memories, for I hid in the dark.
Shade like and skinny, and spared any romance.
It's hard to see evil that's basking in light.
So wait for the night and they'll dance, and they'll melt, and you'll see,
those good memories weren't made by people like them.
They were made by people like me.

Black, space, satiated void,
a meaty elixir, romanticised steroid,
a lens through which we see the heart,
a core, a seed where life shall start.

I hope in deepest darkest dreams,
that life shall come as godly fiends,
to shame us all and show us splendour,
our childhood may we then remember.

When stars were bright and mighty things,
more than flame in frost,
they inspired our hearts and dreams,
the gifts that we have lost.

I look up and I see them each,
looking down on me.
worlds and stories I'd like to see,
but sadly cannot reach.