Here it is.
My downward flight,
Printed clearly in black and white.
Numbers falling
Clear to see

But behind it is the death of me.


Yet there is also
A hopeful bounce,
Signs of a demon trounced.
Numbers climbing
Clear to see

The story that is making me.

I once would stare at stars above
and ask them where you’d be.
I don’t have to ask them anymore;

you’re right here next to me.

And now when stars above
sleep under blanket cloud.
I remember those questions asked,

and smile because you’re found.

I lay awake, taunted it seems,
By memories long dead.
Faces and places clear in ink,
Waiting to be read.

Why hold onto this now lost dream,
Filled with hurt and pain.
Instead I walk into reality bright
And maybe love again.

In this cucoon
My world though smaller
Isn't much better
But at least I'm king

I cease to forget under this endless sky,
A starlit expanse filled with moments clear.

Each twinkle brings a vision burning,
The silent void brings history to ear.

In panorama each scene, each line;
Taunt now through time’s sure distance.

They wash over, flooding a marooned mind,
Memories from which I have no resistance.

Safe, warm, though not in love's embrace;
But just your voice in it's place.

Drifting in comfort on a sea of bliss,
Knowing that come light I'll miss this.

Because moments like these seem to forever extend,
You'd never dream from here that one day they'll end.

This body of mine, bears no resemblance to the creature that lives inside.

Certainly the mind is willing but the flesh is weak. Or is it just that the mind isn't willing enough?

Trapped.

Every angle, every turn.

I can't defeat the fatigue that comes with an unyielding beat.

I can't control the pulse that races,
the limbs that twitch
and the torso convulses.

These hands that trace shoulders and arms, a body clean from these inside scars.

The fingers like daggers wished for seem, to distract from this nightmarish dream.

But beneath this frame that trembles and shakes, there is a boy with hopes unseen.

A man perhaps trapped through habit and fear.

A person whose body though battered and bruised, scarred and used, wishes
to be just like you.

No words describe,
The voice inside
That speaks.
In Feelings,
Not in prose,
Emotions in mind closed.