Invisible water is filling up a lung,
constantly drowning in an everyday world.
No words to every song that has ever been sung,
we are born and we die the same; body curled.
Trees grow but leafs fall, a barren way left to display,
Seas and breeze call, it's said that night is the one true love to day.

We try to be our best, but our best is rarely enough.
With the beat that's in our chest, we're fooled to think that we are tough.
Language was made to communicate, but we quarrel in pettiness.
Still we can all relate to an elegy of emptiness.

There's a dark room in every home,
and each closet holds atleast a single skeleton.
Our feet recognize the path we roam,
and you're not surprised that you fell again.
Puddles gather for us to splash, separating each drop from kin,
I know I'd rather just ask for the water to let me come in.

We try to be our best, but our best is rarely enough.
We all need to take a rest, our strength is now merely a bluff.
Distance is here for us to jump, but not many know readiness,
everyone has some sort of slump with an elegy of emptiness.

Lives travel on, and many paths become split,
and we all prattle on, only our feelings do we acquit.
Life doesn't stop for any one person, no matter the benefit.
But you listen to a different version, that much you have to admit.

We try to be our best, but our best is rarely enough.
Each day now is just a test, truth mixed in with the fluff.
Souls were made to connect, but most care only for prettiness,
not realizing the effect and then the elegy of emptiness.

my ink-stained fingers
are starting to itch for your touch
these lanky arms miss
encircling your plump waist
my heart no longer feels home
at my own chest

it's strange that i long for
those i've never known

my head is pounding
my brain is banging against
the walls of my skull
my eyes are pushing
like they're trying to escape
my eye sockets
my throat feels tight
like something is stuck
i just want to sleep
but instead i lay here
trying not to cry in pain
trying to sleep
trying

Here I am,

living in the space between
truth and reality, fleshing
out fact and fiction.

Honestly, honesty doesn't
always mean accuracy.

Symposium of grief and
all its little tear soldiers,
running down your face,
fleeing the battlefield before
the war's even begun.

I wish you would stop.
Bringing logic into this,
that's so like you, like
logic does any good when
I'm like this.

Why do you get like this?

I don't know. Ask God.
He has a very sick sense
of humor.

I'm getting ahead of myself.
I'm getting beyond myself.
I'm getting tired. I'm getting
so tired, darling.

Erasing myself from history,
not that hard. The only mark
I ever made was on myself,
young and stupid on the cold
bathroom floor, begging God
to throw me a crumb.

I don't remember everything
from those years. Now when
I think of blurriness, I think
red.

Jesus. It hurts to write this.

I tried explaining it to you
once. I tried to tell the truth,
but it wasn't the right one.

What is your truth?

Do you really want to know?

I could spend the rest of my
life writing about this. I hope
I don't.

.
Would you like to take a look
in the covers of my little black book?
Would you like to see if you are there,
and if not, would you really care?

Would you like to scan the pages
of my lovers through the ages?
Would you seek to find your name,
and if not, should I be ashamed?

Would you like to read the index,
and see what my preference reflects?
Would you like to peek and find
the comments I write, and of what kind?

I am sorry but you will never see
the yellowed pages of my history.
It's best that what will be, will be.
My book retired when you chose me.

© Pagan Paul (24/05/17)