Ivy.
It grows everywhere.
It can be poisonous,
or harmless.
Either way,
it's ivy.

I want to be like ivy.
A part of nature,
never to die.
But what use is nature,
when it sits and lies?
When it has no purpose,
other than to survive.
Isn't that the same as humanity?

Ivy is like humanity.
It grows around whatever it latches onto.
It adapts to it's environment.
It can be used,
and even admired.
It can also be hated,
and even decimated.

Blanks.
Wasted parts of space.
Lost in thought and in uses;
a blank canvas without any muses.

When on those nights so cold,
who was there to comfort me but my own bed?
It may seem odd to some,
but for me my bed has always come.

I wrap myself up in it's blankets,
form a cocoon of everlasting peace.
Where pressure nor stress can haunt,
and where no man can taunt.

I talk to myself.
Some might think I'm crazy for doing so.
But what's so crazy about it?
It's pretty normal for me.

My bed has become my home.
I live within it's walls.
Sometimes I become too comfortable,
and bathe too long in it's enveloping walls.

I sometimes find myself in extreme situations,
"This must be due to my bed!" I exclaim,
"It's persuaded me too far this time."
Of course, by the next day,
or even the next hour,
I find myself in those places again.
Perhaps I am to blame.

However, once I've realize where I was,
I instantly recollect my thoughts.
Regret what I was about to do,
and hoped instantly for a new.
And, for a while,
every thing seems to make me smile.
The walls of my bed have faded away,
and I am left in a state of allay.

But that time must come to an end.
According to my bed, it will only begin again.
My bed then reminds me of everything.
Every red line on the skin.
Every rope from the tree.
Every bridge dived from.
Every falsely committed sin.
It reminds me that these exist,
and I will remember for as long as it insists.

Life.
From the sky to every tree,
it encompasses you and me.
It has no end, not for us
but it has an end to those unjust.
Ever so forgiving, yet so bittersweet.
A moral chance to prove a worth.

The cruel,
in their minds they're perfect people.
People who have done no wrong,
and deserve no hate.
We all make mistakes.

Mishaps,
They determine an unknown future;
an accident extended in cause.
Never to happen, always to come,
mistakes to life are 1-1.

Broken.
A window to an unknown sight.
The future to a reader's delight.
Every past problem you've ever felt,
inside a basket of the damage you've dealt.
Damage to others,
damage to me.
Damaging the Earth,
and humanity.

Sorrow.
Regret for the past of a person,
what's the use in feeling it?
You can't forgive every problem,
but you can't forget any trifle.

Depression.
The pressure of a person's feelings.
Raveled up in a box to ship and go.
The constant belittlement of a man,
to overtake him at demand.

Urging thoughts,
from the cruel.
Thoughts of life,
broken and shattered.
Destroyed by a mishap ever so large,
that only others can feel sorrow for the loss.

When on that morning so long ago,
Our hearts touched; I should've known,
that this relationship would soon leave us both alone,
and I would be the one to end it.

You act odd; lack basic care,
to many of my jokes you simply stare,
maybe you would be best off over there,
with another man.

You put on a smile; fake a face,
so that you can try to eliminate our space,
but the gap gets wider, and even more wide!
And now I can't see you on the other side.

Take your ugly dresses; I'll take my love,
and transport it somewhere far above.
I'll give it to someone who wants me there,
but our own relationship is done, I declare!

What is love?
Is it a bind between two people,
or is it just a statement;
a promise to be lost at a whim?

Is true love real?
Every human has pros,
but they also have their cons.
Are true lovers ignorant to the latter?

And at the end of every day,
where is a human's mind,
but inside their own head?
Thinking their own thoughts
and having their own opinions.

Every bond wears with time,
you may try to mend it tight,
but sometimes it all falls apart.

Sometimes.

This fire,
which burns so freely.
Welcomes me to where I belong.

The fire burns so calmly.
Nothing worries it,
and nothing stresses it.
It can be extinguished at any second,
at the whim of those who overpower it's might.
I will allow it to stay,
as I don't want to lose another.

I can get a torch,
I can strengthen the force of a candle.
I can remove it's relaxing abillity,
and let it grow uncontrolled.
However, I can't lessen it's burning without extinguishing it.
and I can't calm it without killing it.

Burn on, you wicked fire.
Burn on.