I've built my wall so tall such even the most relentless assault could not topple it it all.
I've planted forests on either side so long ago they have grown and now I know,
Not even where I built my wall,
Or how tall.
my wicked falls turn'd from stone,
dissolved to nary a diffid tone thrown by ******* bones.
An amorphous form born from the aimless mourning that now has no space to face and call my own.
Telltale swarms of which I myself did warn would come,
Once and again I crumble from what once which I would succumb.
Myself. Dear. Gone.
afloat in limbo forever struck with what,
I Left only to silence my mind until once again,
I would find the cut.
My totality revised,
Scratched through like the words unworthy.
Smoothed over the rough draft,
Nary writing another day's pages.
Stumbling across the periphery,
Escapist tendancies surface henceforth and again.
Deafened heartbeating thunderously infectious.
Caution to the wind.
Caution, in the brittle spirit of intermittent heartache.
Slanting sideways in the wind.
Battered yet standing have,
Caution. The winds of change blow away.
Strung along the periphery.
Tighter than pianostrings.
Pluck, pluck away,
And listen to my songs for,
My crescendo has yet to come
Muddling through the days nary yet to be realized.
The dreams of ensnaring rose-water skies.
That faint red,
Want to be alone.
Want to be at home, I,
Know I can't go now no matter how much it grows,
It shows it's face time and time again to make me pace back and forth to forget what was said and cut the cord or where and who I am!
who am I?
Rather go hungry than speak to someone right now,
I'M ******* STARVING for a piece of this peace that it seems that everybody but me can just pick up and breathe....
But I can't see me...
So how could I possibly know...
The best of us comes out when the rest of us is gone.
I hope that's the case as I just want to save face and get away when my days face me with the longest ways around.
The depression sets as I attempt to find my faded song's wasted namesake.
Looking for a better view of the days whereupon my incessant sighs are drawn.
Drawn like a depressive sketch,
With the pencil marks parked along the secrets to peace's faded spark.
My fallacy, you see,
I'd rather breathe within the seas than have to see these things the way they've gone,
Strung me along the heartstrings stretched so thin as to nigh be my patience with this broken masterpiece.
The best of us are broken when the rest of us are gone.
But, the best in us comes out,
When the rest of us is wrong.
My forgetfulness is a more successful entity than even I at times.
My trust in regretfulness often gets the better of me.
I hunker down,
surrounded by unforgetfulness of the lack of silence.