This is the journal of the dead,
The one that reads of misery and plight.
Pain, sorrow, tears un-wiped.
Will, I read it? Yes, I might!

He smiled and laughed through the unhappiness received,
He probably forgot that eyes could deceive.

He drank champagne till his empty heart-filled,
His soul wasn't empty, filled with guilt.

His skin was embellished with cuts and scars,
His mind within him ripped him apart.

He walked till the end, till the edge of every cliff,
Through paths lit with fires and lanes filled with pyres.

He waited for long and lost everything coming along,
Broken pieces un-joint, falling way behind time.

He cried and wept through every coming night,
Till his face turned pale and tears were denied.

He had to depart with a smile on his face,
It was finally the end, of an unendurable phase.

This is the journal of the dead,
Of the one that cried, but never lied.
Of the one broken, yet the one who never broke.
Of the one that died, leaving all behind.

Please take back these shackles
I dont care if you lost the key
You restrained my freedom
because you believed it's easier
to deny than to let be

If you had seen me for me
how different our lives had become
Instead of hiding from what is
we would had valued what we are

You cannot imprison the heart for the crime of loving
you cannot imprison the mind for the crime of thinking
you cannot imprision the spirit for the crime of living

Please take back these shackles because
we are meant to be free not imprisioned in shame
We are meant to love not hindered by fear
We are meant to be not cast into the abyss
Because we are not nothing, we are something
and that something is the reason that we live

Temptation lingers in the mind that shivers
from the thought of liking too much the wager
of winning the game and then starting over
to once again face the possibility of failure

But perhaps failure was really the best option
because the loser never has to be bothered
by the constant threat of returning to battle
to prove who's better or still standing after

The idea to keep climbing an endless ladder
could make inspiration become less inspired
Does a title really mean anything to its bearer
When the one that bears it is no more the wiser?

Her words danced like wine on my lips,
poetry in my soul and
ecstasy in my heart.

Degree by degree,
the cold grew outside, numbing all,
in it's way.
The fog bowed down and apprenticed.
But inside, you pulled me closer,
and scales of temperature suddenly seemed,
A lot less important to measure anything.
In unison, our warmth dissipated into each other,
as we knew,
The cold wasn't the only thing growing outside,
but our love too.