It's like being at war with yourself.
A war you have no choice in fighting,
A war you have to win.
A war that leaves you dry

Because it's do or die.
And if you fall, you get up,
You get up or stay dead,
And that  choice becomes a luxury.
This war will leave you tierd.

There'll be times, when on the floor,
You'll think of what you're fighting for,
And wonder if it's worth it now.
You'll try to get up,
Forget how.

But every so often, you will be saved.
A soldier, a friend, will come your way.
And for a little while,
you'll be alright.
'Till your signed back up for war.

Then you'll see friends fall
And see yourself,
See your future in someone else,
And carry them high enough to show
That they mean something.
You mean something.
War means something.

Doesn't it?

At night, you'll lose sleep for war,
You'll be counting sheep for war,
You'll weep for war.
And eventually,
It feels like home.
Where else do you know?

There'll be places you'll never go.
You'll dream of having
just something to show,
You'll forget where you are,
It becomes just 'too far',
And you'll lose faith
Until you realise:

You tried.
It's nowhere near enough,
But when you fight,
You toughen up,
And, while seconds pass you by,
Remember who you are.

Not a ghost, not a child,
Not 'someone pulling through'.
You're blood. You're tears.
And when at war,
You're everything to lose.

I can't shake the feeling of being lost
My mind ponders future dreams
But none have come to fruition

What do I have to pay, what is the cost?
I don't want to create elaborate schemes
But I don't want to lose my ambition

Every opportunity, I seem to exhaust
It has become a common theme
An almost permanent condition

Every line has been crossed
My life is breaking at the seams
I'm ready for a new transition

A different disposition
A lasting vision

there is something
inexpressibly beautiful
about the world
          when the sun begins to rise
and fill the dim sky
with soft rays of light
          and only the birds are awake
to sing to you “good morning”
while everyone else
          is curled up in their beds
unaware of the magnificence
they’re missing
          and everything feels so simple
it’s as if six a.m. is an epiphany
that sparks at your fingertips
          and spreads until
you are encompassed entirely
by a feeling of clarity
          there is something
inexpressibly beautiful
about being awake to behold
          the splendor of this world
while everyone else
is still asleep

Here’s something you seldom hear: don’t always listen to your heart. Because if your heart is like mine, it’s often fickle and confused. Emotions aren’t always true, they may come and go with the wind. Feelings trick us into believing lies. You look in the mirror and feel inadequate. You hear something so many times that you start to believe it’s true. You take a situation and manipulate it till it’s something completely false. But it’s time you start listening to your head: you may not be in control of what you feel, but you are in control of how you handle those feelings. Look in the mirror and tell yourself, “I know I am beautiful.” Refuse to believe the lies. Remind yourself of your many wonderful qualities. Don’t read too far into things, take them as they are. Worrying doesn’t change tomorrow, it just makes today more troublesome. Decide to be happy. Decide to be okay. Don’t believe everything you feel.

Curled up beneath the duvet
knees drawn up to chest
inhaling the smokey scent of my fleece
sown fresh nostalgia
I remembered how
we laughed and ate off chinaware
while sipping out of plastic cups
sitting by the fire pit
in the backyard
my eyes wandered
towards the woods at dusk
and I breathed
realizing we are just specks of dust
that glimmer in the light of our Creator.

It is almost five a.m.
With each thump of the echoing bass,
of the synthetic revenge and heartbreak,
angry percussion wraps me closer than your arms ever could--
tremulous and heavy,
more absolute than the sunset fictions
you contentedly let me cling to.
A venomous chorus drips from my lips,
once-swollen eyes now itchy and dry.

This is the still serenity of the predawn slumber,
the yearning of the yetsummer,
the quiet before the birds begin scavenging
through grass, trash, and recycling.
I protest--
tongue, fingers heels teeth and lungs
restless in spite of themselves.

You have chased me out of bed,
across dew-dampened grass,
over uneven pavement as treacherous as your voice.
You follow me.

Sleep is merely a forlorn memory
peering sadly from a forgotten heap of warm cotton thread,
whimpering futilely against the anxious pulsing
of overworked headphones
and overthought peculiarities.

You introduced me to this time of day.
You summoned it once with impatient chords
and a staccato keystroke melody,
casually ignoring the plaintive honesty
I willingly accompanied you with.

But the sunrise casts a strange glow, I guess--
rosy and well-intentioned,
fickle and fleeting, like your grin
or the capricious depth of the summer sky.

No one remembers that wandering blue
the same color as her eyes;
but it seeps through your pores,
curls into the caverns of your chest,
an aching in azure only because you let it.
You have bathed too long in the sun.
As the scarlet sunrise erupts across your shoulders
the sky settles into your lungs.

But don’t trust that sky,
that constant companion.

That sky is a cannibal
and it will eat you alive.