We are all Poe inside.
We are all poets within.
We all fear death and hide.
We all cry and shut it in.
We all have demons and monsters.
We are all hurt and depressed.
We all have mysteries and wonders
Even if we are really just a mess.
They call us negative and mad;
We are the sick and neglected,
And we can't stop being sad
'Cuz we are always being rejected.
We are the weak and the broken;
The ones who sit at the end.
We are the lonely and forgotten.
We are the ones that never mend.
Show us love before it's late.
Race the shadows to "nevermore".
Turn this dark night into-day
Before the shadows lift no more.
No matter how much we try,
We will NEVER be more
than Me, Myself and I.
"We" are so far gone.
Me, Myself and I wish WE weren't.
Your silence has turned my heart deaf.
There are so many things I would like to hear from so many people, but silence is all I ever get.
There is no adjective we can be.
There is no verb which can make us exist.
No adverb to define the time we will never live.
Let's not even talk about nonexistent nouns.
You and I are only meant to be pronouns.
Under the vast sky,
blue and infinite like sea;
I'm lost in your eyes.
I miss you with everything I have,
with everything I can,
and with everything I am.
With raindrops falling and sunshine.
With every thought out of my mind.
In the blowing wind and the gliding moon.
With every breath I miss or take too soon.
In every second that is tickling
And every muscle that is beating.
With every flickering of my light
And all the stars from all my nights.
When I smile or when I weep;
When I’m awake and when I sleep.
With the dancing of my curtains,
In all the known and the uncertain.
With every wave the ocean brings.
In all my hopes and all my dreams.
When day is born and night is gone.
In all I do and all I've done.
In my old future and my past youth;
In my biggest and my smallest truth.
While a politician lies and a hero is born.
In the fearful doubt of right and wrong.
In my tears and laughter,
In my before and after.
In the emptiness of my shadow.
In the darkness of my hollow.
Within Neruda’s rhyming
And In Becker’s free writing.
In Shakespeare’s imagination
And Chomsky’s punctuation.
In the amount of freckles on my back
And in all the things I will ever lack.
When I’m trapped and when I’m free
While I have the joy of knowing thee.
I miss you
And there’s nothing I can do
Because I miss myself, too,
Whenever I don’t have you.
I wrote this for someone who doesn't exist.
What truly matters in life
are not the things you've got
but the ones that will arrive.
Matters not your head,
what matters is your heart.
Matters not what you need;
matters what you have.
Matters not your given story
but the one that you will write.
Matters the second you live,
not the one that has gone by.
Matters the smile you give,
not the one you don’t get back.
Matters not the battle
but to keep up the fight.
Matters that you can be;
matters that I love you
But it only matters
If you love me.
All we are is nothing but a blanket covering the world.
Nothing more than a piece of clothing covering its ******.
We are a split second in the handles of a clock;
the sole whim within the imagination of reality.
An sporadic ****** when riding what we so call life,
but it doesn't really last enough to take another ride.
Our skins are filled with nothing but pure lust
and our bones are only nothing more than dust.
We are a mere heartbeat within the world's heart.
The blink of an eye within the history of humanity.
We are one more pattern in a sequence that never ends.
The fading echo of the voices of society's insanity.
We are the vague flashback of a future we will never live.
A small particle of water in a falling raindrop.
The modifying adjective structuring a sentence of our story.
The rush to the eye of a single fallen teardrop.
What else are we but the literal meaning of nothing?
The same kind of nothing which ignorance finds in art.
We brought nothing to the world but our own life
and nothing but life we will be taking when we depart.
We were born and built out of nothing
and so nothing shall then be our ending;
Nothing, as flowers when they are withered;
Nothing else, shall we ever be considered.
I am nothing more than the shadow of humanity;
the silence of the voices that got lost in calamity.
The memory of oblivion in what some thought
the essence of all their dreams and goals
and the trails of those who bet and lost their souls.
The statue of some heroes, martyrs and poets
and the shame of those who borrowed victory but owe it.
The ink marked in the pages of history
and the tears of those who lived its misery.
The silence of the howls that no one could hear
and the echo of the voices that brought us here.
The faded illusions of the ones that lost the fight
and the ashes of the ones that have passed by.
The ghost of those who were and will no longer be
and the legacy of those who lived and left a path for me.
I am, here and now... and when I turn into I was
I will be forgotten, just like everyone else has.
— The End —