A thought repeated over and over in your mind.  Like the old rope the manic uses time and again every other day to tie a noose with, it becomes tattered and frayed.  When finally you decide to put said noose to use, it breaks and your ideals are shattered.

Beliefs are based on Faith, of which I have very little; except that for which I have in Man.  The Human Spirit.  If there is no Spirit then there can be no Faith. So, Faith lies within the Human Spirit without which there would be no beliefs; without which there would be no Man.

Looking up at the stars, they become obscured as the fog that is my breath floats to join the endless sky.  A shadow as long as love itself, cast from a giant, tossed from the porch.  The dark creature stares with pit fall eyes.  With his ambiguity he says "You can reach this length and more. As love will wash over you, you shall grow.  With the sky, with the stars, with the universe.  with love you shall grow.

A wuthering dew drop in her eye,
Cast from a dark dawn that long since has died.
Hopelessness lost and a hope now regained,
This future of ours now has a new name.

Of all the people that pass me by
Though they are living none are alive.
And the lights that fuel this people's hopes
Have faded from their hearts and souls.
Cascading down the slippery slopes
of mountainous buildings this fading hope
Is leaving them all a noose, a rope
Disguised as something to help them cope.
Made of nylon, silk or cotton
With patterns to help us rise up from the bottom
To the very highest of all top floors
Where they confuse the ceiling with the sky and their confusion with more.
Trapped in cubicles they confuse dark with light
trapped in buildings they begin to fade from sight.
No family, no friends, only co-workers there.
Shared breaths and shared spaces. confusing ambition with care.

Mediocre metaphors pervade my writing. Making it all the more obvious how scared I am. Too scared even to reach deep within for something original.  Too scared to push the limits of existence through literature. Perhaps this is it. Perhaps this rudimentary psychoanalysis is just an example of all that I have within. Others. And the love I have for them that forces me to take them inside and make parts of them exude from within me.  Is it their love for me or, mine for them that keeps me alive?