Could you ever-
drown yourself in the river of life,
have you ever been lost?

It's quite an experience for
one with anxiety, to be lost
and feel so useless.

Stupid, worthless, thankless.
There is no home for the dull,
there is no passion in idiocy.

I am not beautiful,
and such as a rose covered- awash
in the scarlet moon,
I have become the stem in which
water is drunk from the Earth.

I've been running from a heavy sky.
The clouds are black and round,
and in this chaos I'll lose my

drive to ever cry.
I watched the clouds as they dripped and frowned.
I've been running from a heavy sky.

I guess I'll just repeat myself, and fry
the parts I love of my life, black edg'd around,
and in this chaos I'll lose my

will to ever try,
I can feel it as I sit on the ground,
I've been running from a heavy sky.

It sits inside my mind's eye.
Like the worst syndrome of the pound,
and in this chaos I'll lose my

thoughts as they say "bye";
leave me to the lapsing howl of my brain as I walk. Oh! Spellbound,
I've been running from a heavy sky.
And in this chaos I'll lose my-

There is no comfort in death and that is what they will tell you.
But I am telling you, I am waiting on a better clue.
There is no pain after life and that is what I am scared of,
will there ever be a day to mourn the passing of the dove?
I am so worried for myself and that feeling isn't new.
This hurt grapples me like the stern grip of a pirate's worn glove.
And now I can't bear to escape in the stories that I knew.
What a poison to believe in, what a curse to let you love.

there is a house among the shallow plains,
where wheat and field waltz hand in bitter hand,
And in the closed off floor beneath the frames,
there lies a fire dancing in the sand.
It's name is not important to the plot,
but it's been hiding there for quite some time.
it lives and cries beneath the fabled lot,
it sits and tries to find another rhyme,
But there are none here, there are none inside;
if there was a glimmer of consciousness,
it was massacred by life's closet teiid,
and destroyed by their own self consciousness.
So in the house among the shallow plains,
the ******* son of dumb and dumb remains.

Dare enter to thy miserable life!
See the nothing inside my dying brain.
I was a poet once before the strife,
it was hell to watch it destroy my train.

Now every word sounds like it is a joke,
there is no plot inside this teeming home.
I do not want to watch you fall and choke,
but it is hard when you read me your tome.

I hope you enjoy bullying your son,
because this is the last you'll see of him.
I made him go quite crazy so he'll run.
I control all the words that come from them.

So until he becomes one who can't sleep,
I will make him see me and want to weep.

I think I need a glass of water-
but I guess that would ruin the point,
to rid this world of myself,
sans I is a world to rejoice.

But something bitter came my way,
it stopped me in my tracks,
downing downers, feeling
the cuts along my back.

I thought first, of the windmills,
of an April in Paris,
this is a feeling that
I digest with the pills.

I thought second of fient,
in their imprecation I had
become, nay, grown so
used to the thought.

Except late at night,
I would pay to make it stop.

The third thought was the killer,
poised with a knife above my head,
stabbing viciously, cleaving the flesh
from my withered wrinkled bones.

We could've had a ****** good time.
Isn't it pretty to think so?
Late at night I ponder it.
Hemingway, of all the things.