The world spins and time in turn passes,
An age I have stood still motionless to moving masses,
While they have lived and loved, fell and settled down,
I fell into the distance, like wallpaper disappearing into the background.

Love I have never found, there is so much I haven't done,
I've never done a thing that would begin me, so I haven't yet begun
I cannot focus away from living onto a life to live,
Nor if I could do I have anyone to live it with,
But my mind seems fixated and filled with death,
Of a life no longer lived and memories we simply forget,
Futility rests in living a life, is certainly how I feel, that all too easy life is grave,
Though I am grateful for life I have it is solemn solace that I crave,
If this should be a quick result and only lie in lovers arms,
Then quickly I shall bolt, to bring halt, without fault to end this eternal rage with calm,
But how am I to find love? Or is this not so and it must seek me?
Through deadly life and fickle thoughts deaths veil blinds me not to see,
If books and poetry and arts do hold my balm,
Then I shall withdraw away from life further away from harm,
I would spend my life to seek it here,
But then the life, would then not be lived, or so I fear
A realisation which will only dawn when darkest night is near.

So in my worry I idly fret stand still in lament, this fear forging me feet of lead,
Eternally stalks dreams and haunts within my head,
Clenching my tongue in beautiful company so beauty's words are never said,
Leaving me a life guided by the blind and too as poorly led.

The world stops spinning
And time stands still
I still have not comprehended life
And I don't think I never will.

In seclusion my greatest delusion is that I am missed,
That I lie somewhere of importance on somebody's checklist,
But this I know is false, I am a passing lingering at most,
At least I fear that happiness is gained by my absences to grateful hosts,
And guests who need not endure me,
A night of bliss for those who never saw me,
And the fell and fallen dreams I held of my importance crash heavy and fast,
My stomach dips as I sink and the pit of my stomach yearns to change the past,
To speak more or to erase trespassing words that led to my falter,
To not be tarnished by the thousand things I wish to alter.
I hear the joy, I hear the words of kin and sharing,
And how I wish I could be with them and to be a part of caring,
But I fall somewhere between normality and the most bizarre,
I have aimed for friendship before, but too often shot too far,
I am left as an arrow, my head stuck away from where I long to be,
With nothing but knowledge that the target is now far from me,
This may just be all chaos, I may be liked and this may be worry,
But I can never know really either way, so I shall simply say, I am sorry.

How hollow the hallowed hours are spent in adoration,
These born not by feeling, but simple desperation,
As false green pastures of forests set as scenery now wither,
That feared cold that the woodland warded against now haunts and hounds, leading one to shock and shiver.

Loneliness. That dark dire and deadly dread that stalks us through our lives,
We're told we're only alone in death but far less than lonely when we die.

We are very rarely not alone, with respect to lives within our heads,
Which hold thoughts and hopes and words, only thought of, never said.
Nobody really knows us, not all of us I feel
The reality is we only reveal a part of ourselves, our self idealised ideal,
So here we're left, severed, distant, and detached,
Hoping, seeking for some form of a preformed idea of a match,
Distinctly apart from each other we are kept for most of the time,
Is there any surprise in false emotion of devotion spoken?
With loneliness as motive, is there any wonder why the crime?

Anything to avoid the harrow of a hallow of the heart
It makes out endings and our starts, but which leaves us more apart,
I see others, remark and wonder, ponder whether or not they are the same,
Lonely empty canvases, blank and always seeking a partner, painter or just a frame.

Though these plays we cast, for a time they do sustain,
I'd like one day, for the truth to at last be known,
Is there a mirror or a soul with who we are the same?
Or are we always to be be left alone?

So what are you going to do with your life?
I am meant to be stable, secure and assured but my future is hanging on the edge of a knife,
We are born, branded, berated and birthed onto a path,
Told to pick one of eight things that will be the making of your life or aftermath,
Reoccurring roles and regimes, side-lined sought after hobbies and stupid dreams,
“There is nothing you can’t do!”, Or can do, so it seems.

So to repeats and regrets my life has been met, so often by false hopes and aspirations,
Paralleling close to something I enjoy, on small chanced and seldom formed occasions,
I had aims and plans, left no thought for second thoughts as to my pigeon hole I did contort,
But somewhere lurking was the truth that what I wanted, wasn’t actually what I sought.

Because the truth is in a world were truths are rarely a simple fact,
I have no idea what I’m doing or where I’m going or how to react,
To the fact that my life as it is now is entropic,
That there is nothing within my grasp that would give me the chance to stop it,
The hard place and rock that flank me give me little comfort or advice,
As free as I am meant to be, my life is trapped by an unseen vice,
I am meant to be forged and formed, but instead formless and flawed in a thousand different ways,
How I mourn and yearn for the fading memories of younger days,
Where decisions were straight lines on which I would glide to my future,
Before I began picking at the tentative guided suture,
Before I realised this wasn’t the life that I had ordered,
That all the things that my life for me had afforded,
Left me with no ideas but a thousand fears and debts to regret,
I think its safe to say my future is no safe bet.

Yet I am still here.
Though many times to wrong that was fact was near,
While I find it impossible to wake and drag myself from my bed,
I am from it, these thoughts are able to rattle in my head.
No I have no idea who I am, what’s happening, or where I’m going,
But all I can hope is that leaves my every opportunity in not knowing,
That these pessimistic thoughts are not even a simple last resort,
That I have only been ignoring all the joy that life has brought.
As dark as everything is to me right now, that it feels as though an eternal winter has come to stay,
I know what seasons change and there are always brighter days.
Do I know where I’m going? What I’m going to do with my life? In any single way?
No I don’t, not even close, but I think that that’s ok.

Slam! Like a sledgehammer to my sternum,
As I'm hit with thoughts returning,
My lungs under compression,
Returns depression kept at bay by repression,
But then slam! Again hit,
No inhalation; no time with which,
I can steady myself as I'm stumbling back,
Shooting pains to my heart like an attack,
As it sinks like lead and now my stomach fills with cement,
Slow motion as I'm falling captive, held in lament,
And lingering ghosts return to haunt me,
They were never banished, but patient, and now they taunt me,
My knees and shins buckle,
As my feet fall, failing from their shuffle,
And slam! Down I am pushed knees,
As my minds voice cried, oh how it pleads,
And begs for it to stop for a little while longer,
Too many extensions I owe and still I'm no stronger,
And I slam! To my side, and now I'm lay fetal,
A victim and aim for all my evils,
Every dark thought and sight of this world I've endured,
All my crippling empathy that I have out-poured,
Into the eyes of every soul, now I'm left with an empty bowl,
My hearts been encased in a case made of coal,
Which has broken,
And the beasts give no token,
No warning as they pounce,
And I have no will to fight nor solution to announce,
I beg my soul back now to sleep,
By some grace,
The demons retreat,
As I slam! Shut the gates,
For another night the beasts will keep.

Life is not certain but death is always true,
It is the sum of life we are told, its something we all must do,
But is life then worth it? If what is true is taught?
If death is our only eventuality, then the sum of life is naught,
That "it's what we do that matters", it's often argued in light of this thought,
That "it's about each of our own journeys, the individual battles that we have fought".

But when we die the memory of that life dies too,
All the trials and tribulations journeyed through,
And as that is fact and held deep within our minds,
Then it is not the life lived that matters, but the memory left behind,
Alas memories fade, like photographs that ware,
So beyond a few generations thought, were we ever there?
Our memory will be so easily forgot,
And our existence beyond a century will matter not.

Then is life to leave a legacy?
To have engrained ourselves upon eternity?
Is the goal to scorch our name on this rock,
And leave the message "forget me not"?
If that is so then I do not wish to live this life,
To toil in anguish and attempt to leave a mark in strife,
If our actions have no effect and the truths we sought are lost,
Then I would argue life means nothing, and death is no great cost.

It is often in life, to then look above,
To hope that someone notices, our actions, our thoughts, our loves,
And hope that in their mind we will remain,
So that in that thought we will immortally be sustained.
Truly I believe if a faith is the choice a person has then made,
Then it is nobody's business to make that belief fade,
But belief so often leads to action, to change, examples of this are rife,
So then faith is more destructive than any other walk of life.

I have never had the gift of faith, something at times can give me woe,
But instead find peace in facts, in thought and knowledge left to know,
In science a persons legacy can span an entire age,
Their words and thoughts sealed engraved by ink upon a page,
But again the page can be easily lost, or fade or too be burned,
Then humanity would forget that person, and anything that they may have learned.

I was once told that what makes humanity unique is the archiving of our knowledge,
That we keep it to pass along through schools and art and college,
Then the things we teach and then pass on,
Is all that ever mattered all along.
If that is true then life does have a goal, that we must go,
Out into this world to live our life and learn as much as we can know,
And if I am as I believe correct,
Like the old and wise do teach in retrospect,
Then I would wager that it is our purpose on this rock,
To have all that we know ready, when death begins to knock,
To then sit and tell our story, speak soft words to the generation to come.
And hope our teachings keep them well for this is our life's sum.

Any and all warmth of loves bright glow,
I have ever; or will ever know,
Has always been lost,
Though that loss has never been grave in cost,
I know the cost of sharper pains,
Of wish of death for those whom I disdain,
Those temptress arms that have come and passed,
Which yield so swift but clasp so fast,
Who have plucked my heart and soul from my chest,
Leaving me night and day of unrest, pure unyielding distress,
Of my heart and true loves plans these thieves have made such mess.

Not all fault can be pointed out for me to deliver blame,
Without a mirror which would not reflect me for shame,
For actions I have made,
The costs I thus since paid, as lovers passed then fade,
With lines drawn between one and another,
Are blurred, lost, and only in recall rediscovered.

I speak of love,
As if I have been sent such gift from high above,
As if delivered to me by heavens dove,
Was distinction of specific amour given to me and to another,
But I do not believe a connection of this nature has been found
in any I falsely call lover.

If love is delivered by Cupid's bow,
Then no gaps in my armour does that marksmen know,
And if love is bore by that at first sight, then shines truths light,
Then I think I must be blind and see nothing but darkest night,
And if still not this and only with time does love exist,
Then I think these times I must have missed,
Never laughed or danced or kissed,
And instead slept blindly throughout an age,
Leaving this chapter unwritten, blankly left is every page.

I pray to a god that does not exist that the future does me well,
Releases me to life from the knowledge; of an existing loveless hell,
That I will meet someone before the tolling of that bell,
To know a soul, who will be all my pain will need quell,
And that some heavens wings will then have saved me from what I may befall,
As into loves loving arms I will hope to fall.