Never let your mask slip, not for a ******* minute, there isn't a single soul you can trust and you must keep on pushing for as far as you can go, I'm marking every month and minute as a measure of how much further I can go, and to be honest if I'll make it to another birthday I am in hell if I know, because I can feel the shadow of that hand that is always creeping for our necks, i am measuring every second to the next, screaming yes! I made it to another one, but then it's passed and that's another gone and ******* I still feel the same, if time heals wounds then why am I still in pain it is weining on me I am raw, but I don't know if I can go a second more, but here I am counting one minute to the next, but by every measure I give it a year till the planet is one person less.

Here I stand, 5 feet and 10 inches above the ground that I hardly find the effort to pull myself up from, I will be buried six feet below it at some point which is further from it than I in life will become, and even then I will be horizontal, succumbing to that ever lingering notion that is the prospect of death, it has etched and molded myself from myself till soon there will be  nothing left, but a statue of the stature of a man that came before, to his journals and the night his life he did outpour and that when lay calmly in the coffin of his custom he will fret no more.

But that was him, his mind ever fixed on what will be and what has been so he hardly ever saw what is, but he knows that and then reflects and fears to do it in future and thus so the pattern exists.

This is never what he thought reality was, felt so certain in knowledge and knowing because he felt for a time it gave him some control,
unknowing that by tearing down ideas that make others whole, he was unpiecing the puzzle that made up his sad and shallow soul.

So foul the thought became that he was the creator of his own disdain that he bound himself in pain, built a greenhouse of shame for himself
pane by pane to bathe in the glow of all he did and could ever know, till it burned him and wilted to roots he needed to grow.

But as if by some gorgons curse what makes it worse is not that he died, but that he still persists, the panes he built reflecting that he exists,
with this body and face he was born with, and acts as a 42inch screen for him to watch himself live. If you could call it living, seeking out repeat  prescriptions of poison forfilling and willing for them to change some part of the life he saw, but they did and do nothing less and nothing more than to beg to be used again, like a poorly chosen friend they are the function of forming our fortune and then bringing the fortunes end.

It all depends on what we think life is in end, is it a test or joke? Are we the echos of a voice that noone spoke? Is there even a reason? Would we even find that pleasing? To know that we were created by something that also created death and pain like they were teasing us with our own existence? Or is it like the seasons that as we mark one
changing to the next, we're so vexed that we don't see that none of the systems are changing there is no beginning or an end as there is with books? We're so perplexed by our own consciousness and the changing of years and months and days that we're stupid enough to pick up a newspaper and believe what ever the first page says.

We take everything at face value if we're smart enough to be dumb, because look to hard beneath the mask and the magic is then undone. We think we've won by meriting our actions as creating some change, but the positions on a chessboard all exist no matter how much we rearrange. Whats strange is that none of the things we give meaning to matter, because really nothing matters, and it doesn't matter that nothing matters, the matter we're all made of can be deconstructed into energy and the energy of the universe can be woven into any
form but it does nothing to deform the fact that we are here, standing on the ground that is made up of the same stuff as us, from the energy of the universe that made stars that lie above us. And we could argue about and chicken and an egg from the beginning of the universe until there is nothing left but the ground that I stand on has never had a crisis of confidence it just is. I stand and stomp and slide all over it my entire life and it has never given a ****, and hell maybe this metaphor isn't worth it or even its too derivative, but the purpose of my life I have come to live with, is that this is the life I have had to begin with. There isn't a single truly perfect thing in the universe and purpose is insignificant compared to living it.

I don't know if I'll find or need another to take my hand, I don't know if I'll ever bow to a gods command, I don't know why there are more stars than grains of sand , but all I do know is here I am, and until that is no longer true, here I stand.

We see mountains in the distance and decide they're something to climb,
We see opertunity within grasp and claim "it must be mine",
But these are shimmering mirages with the lustre of fools gold,
They are stairways painted on walls which hope they do enclose,
Holding dear within those smoke forged prey we create to catch so fast,
But time withers our realm and reach by our past,
But lasting thoughts are there as ghosts and remain to haunt,
Strengthened by those on mountaintops who decide that they should flaunt,
And taunt us with false wisdom that they preach,
So I know now there are mountaintops I'll never reach.

I used to tend to sunflowers,
Nurtured and nurished their seeds,
Through soft songs and flourished hours,
Their beauty a mirror to my needs,
It feeds a hole in my life's fabric,
One I cared not for to stitch in time,
So the hole has become a scar and what's tragic,
Is my sunflowers died and buried into that hole of mine,

I have spent years regretting,
Pulling away pettles and crying over the fact they won't regrow,
But though I knew not at the time I wasnt letting,
My sunflowers growing new and so,

In time I came to remember,
Something I concede that I should already know,
That the rotten dreams of last December,
Are mulch from which new sunflowers will grow,

So what if the sunflowers of my past may never not return,
So what if my fabrics torn and gaping gap will never mend,
The new seeds that I soe are now my new concern,
I have new sunflowers now to tend.

Will this be how I end?
A series of fortuneless failings forging fake ideas on which I depend,
Will this be how I end?
Messy myriads of malicious and mundane men and woman of disdain for each a pain they recommend,
Is this how I end?
An audacious allegory screaming to the world with hopes in vain and civil likings I pretend,
Is this how it all ends?
The subtle cries and whimpers of the weak and weary through a touch screen connection to my friends?
Is this how my world ends?
Taking nothing with us but leaving a thousand things owned by men who pretend to give yet do nothing but lend
Is this my end?
The teetering tempting footsteps on a ledge to leap and leave nothing less, than a pavement canvas of crimson and marrow blend,
to bend my will against the curb that will not bend and send a message to a nihilistic god screaming nothing will this mend,
so then to the torturous temptations that in my mind I tend I say,
The end?

Perhaps this sorrow is permanent, I ponder as my mind wanders to seek wonders or just purpose in something, anything,
Trapped by these childlike desires to see beauty in fires and not the chaos that instead they can bring, consuming everything.
Denial of the unknown, security in fires that were blown and beat back and kept calm and disarmed and at bay,
Though they once roared now they're finished, all but completely diminished extinguished as like wind blown away.
The dark they fought back now it hounds and attacks, with my soul as their sparse dreaded pray.
There once was a feast for these dark dreaded beasts, but the worn threads now oh how they fray.
So little by little, my self fragile and brittle, there are more cracks in the walls of my mind,
I am falling away, faster night over day and to reason or will left I am blind.
A stalemate is reached, between beliefs that I preach, and how much further my weak weary soul can go on,
Still I try to find joy, with the whit I deploy, after all permanent sorrow, is lost, when we're gone.

Time is hanging around me like a noose,
It was was once so different in my youth,
When it was loose and free, and mine alone to waste,
Not just an anchor that held me at my waist,
The haste with which I wished to age,
I felt as if youth was a steel forged cage,
The rage I held for my youthful hope,
It tied the knot within that rope.
As it sits so tempting, I feel its weight on my shoulders,
With everyday making the world seem colder,
My older self a frame that longs so to be hung,
Wishing for more time to stay simple and be young,
But the final song is sung and my picture seeks a wall,
With nothing but my enemy of fate to try to stall,
But all I want is my rope to unravel,
To have more chance to to laugh, and live, and travel,
To have all the time of my life that I deserve,
To leave memories that even time could not disturb.
Though its absurd its the lack of time we need,
It gives us the chances to love and so believe,
So I will leave the rope to rest on my neck and never let it take my weight,
About time I seized my fate or wreck, no longer will I wait.

What if the wisdom of words seen so often as absurd,
Were worth little more than rich men care,
For the plight or the might that lead weak men to fight
To be treated as equals with rights, how they dare.

Where the poor tend to weep, when the rich steal to keep,
There rotund and repugnant revolting form,
When these are the rules, when we are fooled by the fools,
How could fair society ever be born?

Painted rose red and guilty, simply fickle and filthy,
How quickly the glimmer of hope tends to dim,
But when a true cause is just, truth gripped tightly we must,
Fight with all ourselves and our hearts and we'll win.

We are sheep in a herd, trusting wolves at their word,
Who worship pigs up on high that we feed,
But by number we are greater, beyond wolf hides are sheep traitors,
With pigs in their pens we can succeed.

We are born equal, the same, through each other we all gain,
I'm unsure what will come after the fall,
But when no man is master, then we can build it must faster,
At last our future that is fair and for us all.

In points of importance I have few,
That took time to recognise,
To rationalise a reason why none are new,
I found so hard realise.
That the mind and icon behind these eyes
Is nothing but another me,
That the version that I once was traps the old
And seeks to be set free,
That the dark, dank and dreaded depths of deception,
That my soul daily dredges through,
Finds so few sweet, sepia toned seconds of recollection,
So much more worn than when they were new.
Like a limb that has become rotten to me,
Removal is the only cure,
But separation seems so sadly to be,
Impossible to endure.
To remove myself from my versions past,
To see another dawn,
Like phoenix forged and formed in fire at last,
I too must be reborn,
The terrifying thought to be born screaming, new,
Into the world again,
Rebirth would mean everything to redo,
Even brand new pain,
Just as with any birth I need refrain,
To decide what I will do,
But just as birth and death are the same door frame,
I’m slowly making it through.

I wonder, as I wander meandering down meander lines, whether meaning lies as simple lines, or branches like the trees about which climb aloft, just as with meanings and intentions, I can't see the endings nor the roots of soils retention, which are buried beneath just like it is in us hidden and only revealed; in a small and concealed mention.

But my attention is not broken, like the fallen branches as gifts or tokens, which lay snapped and separate at my feet, disorganised as soldiers bodies who lay dying on a war ground in defeat, along with these comrades are kept, autumn-ed oranged leaves of trees, that crunch beneath my step and fly within the breeze, as the wind ebbs and flows around me, as the forest breathes.

Though life is as equally as around me, as it is walking down the road, somehow I'm more comfortable amongst these, though they're as equally unknown. There isn't stillness, life is here, the forest flows and moves and it feels like kin are near, that the branches pushing out are reaching like open arms to hold me, contrary to what midnight shadows and horror stories have always taught me.

These contorted, twisted statues so stern and certain, that you are drawn behind the curtain into worlds beyond your own, far past the treaded paths that are to us so comfortably known, to dimensions pushing out into further, by mother nature to preserve her unknowns, these haunting hollow hallows happily taken as adopted homes.

All my wonderings are clearing as the forests edge I am now nearing, all those thoughts I had been fearing are lost and bliss is searing on my mind, though the future is where I’m headed, to the present I am tethered, gone away is the dreaded past on those treaded paths I leave behind.

I see flaws in people like cracks on the pavement,
So trust me when I'm avoiding pictures and mirrors, it's no kind of statement,
It's just a reflection reflects more than I'd ever want it to,
All that I can and could not do, dreams and thoughts, all that is false and true,
It's like opening a book and knowing the story,
The plot twists, the characters emotions, and history in the cold when it's stormy,
That's what I see, I don't see me,
What I perceive is what I believe, that which I need and dream to be,
Though the mirror hanging on the wall is fine it's me that's cracked,
Fractured, captured in a moment where I am still seeing everything I lack,
So I'll continue to duck and weave from what I perceive, dodging mirrors and photographs,
I don't know my whole story, of my book this is just the first draft,
So I'm gonna focus on ignoring it all and doing what I can,
Because in reflection a reflection isn't everything I am.

How foolishly fickle,
I fall as when I was little,
In and out of transitioning crushes,
And when I come to wonder why, Eros blushes,
Time pushes through me egging me onto further failure and upset,
For every lasting moment of sincere joy there are a thousand to regret,
And yet still to the slaughter house I take my step,
No matter the pierce of pain or splatter of tears wept,
Crimson dreams haunt my footfalls,
Hiding from them in the isolation of four walls,
To breach my inner sanctum is great action,
My existence constantly undergoing rarefaction,
Hinged by thoughts and daydreams I’m unhinged by reality,
And the glimpses in between at the insane and preposterous somehow hold my sanity,
My mind aches with too much company at times,
But my heart breaks from the loneliness of my mind,
I am trapped between these parallels that fixate on why I’m here,
But with the loss of the loose grip I hold I so fear I’ll disappear
Into nothing, the abyssal void of life beyond life,
And the reasons for me to join them for me at least seem so rife,
So now I sit, play a show of my invention on my wit, show the drink where it was that I was bit,
And like a puzzle piece that nobody mentioned with no dimension try to find somewhere that I fit.

My memory's are thick like molasses as I drown in melancholy,
Sickened and surrounded by reasons to be sorry,
People don't understand a reason to drink,
But my god how blissful it is not to think.
My thoughts are toxic and torturous to the point of terror and ache,
I push my paramount and persist against avoiding a break,
I am holding to reserve pain for another day,
How these thick and terrible thoughts won't simply go away.

In winter past I was was warmed by just your loving gaze,
But came the passing of December,
Our love my dear, it never blazed,
But left a single dying ember,
Though my soul was kindling for your care,
I was your respite between love,
When I fell frozen you were far from there,
I used to think that I was not enough,
Above and beyond I tried to raise, myself past words I'd heard said,
But these were younger foolish days,
When I heard truths as lies instead,
I have led myself down frozen paths,
As I have often snowed myself in,
If words are cure, this is my thousandth draft,
To ail what lies within,
And every time I have to ask,
Why the world must spin,
But you have become my winter past,
As I'm keen to greet the spring.

Black rooms become clearer as my mind only seems to fog,
Wishing only off to drift by these hours that I log,
As dawn draws close and the room grows lighter,
I grip to these few hours I may yet grasp a little tighter.
No shape or way I lay hold me any peace,
Though the thoughts that hold me captive they never seem to cease,
For louder they shout as silence walls to the night,
Though my body and eyes are aching my mind grows stronger with the light,
These hues of grey that form my room seem to be audience to my sleep,
For the only way for me to leave is the secret that they keep,
While against the weight of energy tomorrow demands I try to lift,
I beg for to be awake tomorrow but now to sleep I drift.

How great it would be,
To walk up to you maybe say a line or two,
But the person you meet wouldn't be me,
Because that is something I would never do,
So here is my paradox of existence,
The way I live my life means I don't take the chances,
Unrelenting torture of my minds persistence,
Tends to ruin any of my potential romances,
So maybe I'll look from a afar,
Imagine a life and our love as a roaring fire,
You becoming someone new, as I imagine you are,
A perfect object of my desire,
So you could never match my imagined version,
You are no longer the you I know,
But these are idled perversions,
My minds loneliness creating itself a show,
I would like to say hello,
Maybe I could make you laugh or stay,
But I figure its best for me to go,
Our imagined life together drifts away.

It began with a shot in the dark,
A chance to surpass what was expected,
But after such a short distance,
My body is affected,
My bodies screaming,
My legs are lead,
The only part still running,
Is the brain within my head,
Others are so far ahead,
Success is within their grasp,
While I'm still crawling trudging on,
Been so long since they first passed,
They've settled down ,
With those they've found,
They chose to stop where they did,
Whereas I hit the ground,
While I clamber for love, a career and peace of mind,
Trying to find my own pace,
I'm stunted for this moment in time,
I've lost the human race.

I sit alone staring through a frame,
At a face staring back who himself has the same name,
And although right now he is me, and I know it's true,
One day he'll be a face, that once upon a time I knew.

He is a boy on the precipice of becoming a man,
He is doubtful he will become the man he thinks he can,
His eyes, though small are young and relatively new,
Have gone greyer now from when they were once bright blue.

The frame which holds this face he is now growing into,
Is still rounded in its whole, like his previous self he knew,
His hair is long, but not as long as it was before,
(Though he likes it shorter and thinks nevermore, he knows it won't be short forevermore),
But at present it nearly hides the ears on both sides, long at the back and wavy at the fore.
His brow is heavy and his forehead wrinkled before it's time,
More of his head is shown by his retreating hairline of mine,
(What battle does it retreat from, could I not avoid this crime?).

His lips though fat are small and pink, like his pudgy rounded nose that sits,
Above those lips, beneath those eyes of his with dark circles within their mitts,
His cheeks are big, as are his hips and waist,
His big round head, has a somewhat a solemn sunken face.

To return back to previous mention where,
Mentioned was his hair,
It is darker now from when it was blonde and bright,
Does it darken with ones soul, one wonders if it might.

All and all I believe this faith still holds some hope,
Not as much as once held, he is now somewhat more of a misanthrope,
But although his eyes seem sorrowful and sad,
I believe faces from future frames will be more glad.

And to this face I see now and know
I bid farewell as I turn to go
To leave and remove this frame from view
I say my final goodbye, to this face that I once knew.

Inhale.
This life of living to loving to longing for too long,
Before we know it winter draws and the song is sung,
But this moment, this is life,
Pain, joy, charity and sacrifice,
The bad molds us just as the good does,
This mortal clay through which our blood courses,
And the life it forces from parental sources,
Becomes ignored so easily,
That clocks tick tock moves silently, teasingly,
So that all too soon meaning is lost in stress,
The mess bore of intertwining consciousness,
It's important to pause,
To take a moment away from economic constructs and socialites laws,
To take one second, to breathe in and breathe out
And within a breaths brief eternity attempt to grasp what life's about.
Exhale.

Be a man, reflect myself as authority at any point I can, be strong and assertive aggressive insert anger into everything I am.
Be a man, make every women around be scared, with my Hetero ****** nature flared and disrespect every love who ever cared.
Be a man, treat women like trophies and power as breath, never meet eye to eye but see her heart blocked by *******, never be weak or flawed and never be torn apart, make sure every other man knows how much a man I am right from the start.
Be a man, don't enjoy art unless it can be used to fool girls to think I have a caring attitude, be slave to **** and seek *** out like food, **** as much as I can ****, never be a *****. Be lude and rude and exude nothing but a constant raw need for my needs to be for-filled, that I am here to ensure by my act every woman is thrilled.
Understand there is no line between competition and compensation of another's care or careful caressing, touch whoever I want without their blessing, make sure no girl can pass without your eyes ******* and I'm guessing that every girl should instantly know how great and unique I am. But none of this is offensive, derogatory or degrading, I'm just being a man.

I unlike bullets am uncertain,
while we both hold in chambers with blackout curtains,
I lack a hammer with which for my certainty to take form,
or a casing over which people could mourn,
come the dawn we both would be spent,
and those who remember us would lament ,
over days we both were whole,
not one fused to the other mind and soul,
but my uncertainty lends to fear that bullets don't have,
my skin is weak I am not iron clad,
not bound to a course of which my heart would lie with,
but both bullets and I have an end to die with.

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.

The whisper of words by wind through my window woke me,
Though surely nothing, the vanished words had broke me from my slumber,
Such dredge and dreadful wonders I had dreamed that I wonder,
Whether the words were whispered with purpose pulling me up from under,
That mares glare in dreams that can stare and know a soul,
And reveal every part, of both mind and heart, that were as black as coal,
Showing every fear and that dark is a half to every whole.

That night was so cold in reflection of the day,
Wind now abated, though only hesitated ,rustled trees and their leaves as they sway,
Then fell a sinister sound of silence that left me shaken,
With my mind and focus now awakened,
I gazed out at the false summers glow, dimly forged by street light,
Reflecting off the snow forming an orange due and haze but more dull than bright,
Bringing shades and shadows of shapes into sight, that dwell within the night.

Was it these inventions of the light that whispered to me,
Though their lives I bore by my imagination maybe,
But the way they twist and shift so swift,
By natural means forming silhouettes as a gift,
Which now do seem to stay and stare,
And though they bare no eyes I bare their glare,
As they share their dark devices in kind, into the grim and darkest lair that is my mind.

They now in control they drive me beyond my sanity,
To draw me into my own shadows through theirs
Revealing my greed and lust and vanity,
And many other sins that I have carried out,
Though by no means man of god, absolution is what it's about
For which they will not give me now,
As they contort to grins and teeth and claws somehow, they linger
Waiting, as if for something left for me to reveal,
Yet another shadow the hue of light does still conceal,
But from my mind I cannot steal the object of their desire,
Nor what woke me when I was so tired.

But those whispered words are lost to the recesses,
And as their forms decay by light and dark processes,
The mares gallop now distant,
Pulled back and further down within an instant,
Whispers whisk me by wind to sleep,
What a tentative and equal balance that they keep,
Though like the shadows it is the whispered words that I bare,
A way of searching through the chaos of my mind,
and what beneath shadows I may find there.

My hopes are the same as the ones that Icarus had,
Those mad impossible fantasies that always seem to make me glad, but the wax is dripping now,
My fantasies slipping out from within my grasp,
Hand holds slipping through the clouds I try to clasp,
My back reaching out to envelop and kiss the earth,
My decent a curse, as I watch those burning shining hopes fall away,
That Sun that brings me horror of night; so much longer than the day,
And all the way down I’m wishing I’d never flew so high,
Piercing and plummeting down and through the empty sky,
Why I’d ever tried to be something I could never be,
Feathers falling all about and away from me,
Every reason it could of and did go wrong for me to see,
Falling further and farther down from fantasy I wonder why,
Why it was that I, had ever dared to fly.