I woke up
with an argument
in a dream,
and a song in my head.
Is my anger
as fictitious
as I want it to be?
Or have I a need
to leave my words
in the dreaming realm
once more?

I hope freedom's gates
taste sweeter
when captivity
has been
this
long.

She was angel guarding the gates of Hell,
a beauty born in the wrong
generation.
Her dreams touch the sky
She sings
lullabies,
Yet Hell
remains
Hell.

My sins may outweigh yours,
but they are sins,
all the same.

I guess
what I fear
cannot be
founded in fiction,
but in reality
itself.

Another night alone,
and I am trying to scrub off
the bruises
with running tap water
and soap.
I scrub until the skin is raw,
and make a note,
to keep my hands out of sight;
others and my own.
I've been stained
with wounds
that cannot be
washed away.

I am sorry.

I have given up my summer
for whom?
Not myself,
nor my friends,
but for that beautiful
4.0,
at the end.