I wish we had met later in life.
We were such good friends back then,
But nothing seemed to line up quite right.
We never got what a couple should have.
None of my dreams ever came true.
I wish we had met later in life.
I wish we were still good friends today.
At this point I can’t even compare myself to then.
Our minds have gone in such different directions.
I followed you so far and shaped my mind to be like yours.
Does that make me loving, or clueless and clumsy?
I wish we had met later in life.
You’re such a fun friend, but you are too close to my past.
I can’t be around and love with giving hands.
Did I ruin a perfect place, or was I just slaughtered by unfortunate circumstances?
I’m too scared to face undying memories,
So I choose to hide, despite the lack of cover.
I wish we had met later in life.

Am I ready to restart?
Really ready to leave it all behind?
Just the people, or the places too?
If the memories hurt this bad,
Would reviving the pieces pain me even more?
I don’t know if I could stand,
Another rejection to send me sulking in reflection.
I hurt myself too much on my own.
Even after you apologized,
I was still lost on how to act alone.
You taught me to love creating past myself,
Now is there anyway to find that once again?
I feel bad for leaving what made me.
But then again, I hate who I am.

Under the water,
Watching as the silver surface moves.
Quickly calm, as the darkness pours into ears.
The mind at rest,
Apart from the world the silence is best.
The pressure pushing into softest of spaces.

The lake is thick,
Swimming between fingers as if to hold its hand.
Keep on falling,
In a world lacking gravity,
Reaching for something to hold whilst knowing there’s nowhere to stand.

Hands Cold.
Finally feel hard enough,
To protect my filtered soul.
Sins Told.
Surrounded by a little trust,
Enough to keep me sold.

The heatwaves pressed me down, sweating out my moral code.
The others watched or listened,
Breathing heavy but their judgement never showed.
Held on tight to warmth, let the thoughts pass as I rode.
Gripped so tight it burned,
Remembering the feeling and depth through the blankets I fold.

Twisting of beauty should not deform the idea, the beauty itself.
Why oh why do clouds of black, rain down on the subject of shame and pain?
Why can’t the weapon be materialized?
Why can’t the lies be realized?

Beauty is the best source of pain.
Take a thing high in glory,
Pure and pleasing,
Disturb the foundation,
And watch it fall.
The height lets it into the darkest hole.

Why is this so?
Why must what is made most magnificent,
Suffer from a subtle switch of substratum,
To break and bend hearts so badly beaten,
Until it becomes easier to drown in poison then,
To take a breath of oxygen?

This medium of art is a vice in my heart,
The softness of the canvas, paints a potent addiction.
Emotions flow even below the eyes,
Somehow the smallest brushstrokes pull me in and wrap themselves around me.
Can I separate the profession from my own creation?
Or will this easel I approach, trap me wear I stand?

It’s running and fighting.
Respectively.
Fighting the running to grasp some humility,
but fearing the loss of value in my true location,
my true state of being.
Do I fight just so I don’t become a disturbance,
My own mind dying, just so I don’t receive more rejection?
It is either protection or pride.
While still chasing that perfect child,
I listen to the lies that keep me from something that might actual help.