From twisting, gnawing, wrenching pain,
The doctors promised him refrain,
And from their view where patient lied,
No one knew of the metal grind.

Until he woke that dreadful day,
And in his bedroom where he lay,
He felt his tendons begin to cry,
Here comes the hell of the metal grind.

From root of bone there promised pain,
The likes not known to him again,
From each heartbeat felt before the slide,
Here comes the hell of the metal grind.

His blessing then turned into curse,
As pain to him was well-rehearsed,
So he sat awake the entire time,
To feel the hell of the metal grind.

He never knew when it would come,
And always thought that it was done,
After every stab into his side,
He feared the hell of the metal grind.

And when the cure for this was found,
The doctors surely did resound,
“Your tolerance for pain is very high!
Most would feint from the metal grind.”

And laughter rang out from their breath,
Though none from him for none was left,
And if he feels invincible for a time,
He recalls the hell of the metal grind.

I already died once,
Was that not enough?
That was my reward for calling the devil’s bluff,
And saving the one I love.
But now the world’s asking me to grow up,
Or else it’ll judge me,
For being care free,
And finding life to be,
Anything more than lonely.

Grow up kid,
You haven’t earned a life well lived,
Until you dress like this,
Walk like that,
Stand up straight,
Be careful when you laugh,
‘Cause it’s not all fun and games,
Until your life has passed you by,
You only get to live,
If you’re willing to die.

You asked me for my happiest moment,
And I came up empty-handed,
Not because I never had one,
But because I never really thought about it.

For me time doesn't move like that,
It's not a moment to moment live your life like it's the last kind of cliche-trap that I put myself into.

For me everything is as old as it is new,
Because I knew from just about day one that everyone tells you to enjoy life, but they're so busy running the race they forget to take it in strides.

For me life is honestly a breeze,
But the problems come in the form of anxiety when people ask what I've been up to.

Because when they realize my answer is nothing new they look at me like,
"Who are you to be happy taking life at your own pace?"

"Don't you know? This life is a race and you don't have much time.
You should live your life like mine and be happy."

I was,
Before I met you

Hearts are rare,
And halos dead,
I would declare,
No angels left.

Were it not for you,
A truth would shine,
In halos place,
And twist the mind.

No angels left,
But this rare find,
A lovely heart,
The lonely kind.

Of quiet words,
And brighter thought,
Show me then,
What time forgot.

The caring cure,
From healthy souls,
Before my own,
Became so cold.

I'm happiest when I can wake up and make up my mind as to how I feel. Before the question pops into my head of which thoughts are real and which ones are yours.

I'm happiest when I can tell you for sure of who I am, which only lasts for about an hour after I wave goodbye to the sand man and start my day.

I'm happiest when I can run away from the idea of happiness for as long as possible. I know that sounds weird but I'm better off never thinking or asking that question in general. Am I happy?

It's a crap-shoot, a moot-point for me designed to take away what it means to be happy. I don't want to think to deeply before I get out of bed, so please happiness, leave me be so I can keep out of my head and just be me.

Sometimes I wonder why I hesitate on things I say,
Maybe I don't think they're mine In the first place,
I worry about that you know?
How much of me is gone now that I'm grown?
How much is my mother, my sister, my father, another?
How much is me and what do I own?
How many of your thoughts have found a home in me?
So sweetly, sincerely, I ask you in a cheesy way,
How much of me can I really claim?

In a land ablaze with flame you hold to a name you once loved because what else can you do? I’ve been there it’s true and they say that if you’re going through hell then keep on going, but the issue is hell’s starting to feel ***** so know me to be trying but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking of lying down. So hear me now, I know where you are, keep pushing, know your dreams and you’ll go far, remember who you are is part of who you were and stay married down on earth. Here, grounded, surrounded by friends, take a moment to breathe again and remember, that even if Hell feels like home, you’re not alone.

I have nothing more to write about,
Since you moved in; all else moved out,
All thoughts of how to win your heart,
Of love and joy in equal parts,
All are gone; and there a drought.

And ever since that fateful day
I lay my words out on display,
All too dated and so cliche,
But what am I supposed to do?
A hopeless fool when meeting you,
And in romance I'll stay the same,
My heart forever calls your name.

Yet even so I wonder then,
What good to me is written pen,
When nothing seems to find its place,
Longing still for better days.

What do you do when life feels like a copy?
When the phrase “I love you” is just the cue for heartache?
When who you are misses who you were,
How much are you really worth?

When nothing ever feels quite right,
So you stay up all night thinking,
That life was once a steady ship,
And now you’re slowly sinking.

What do you do when you don’t feel good enough,
To ever really be sure?
When life shows you beauty,
That you’ve seen before?

I want someone close to understand, not some stranger who I’ve never known beyond a simple hello and the exchange of some bills so they can listen to me talk about nothing for a few hours. But that’s all it is, nothing, blissfully reaching out for validation, for reason, for acceptance, looking for any reason at all to be something justifiable. We all have our stories, but we let others choose if they get to define us, and for me it’s enough for a friend to hear, and just tell me I’m ok every once and awhile, you don’t even need to smile when you do it..just listen, and tell me it’s ok so I can finally make something out of all this crazy nothing in my head and move on. But I’m rambling, so listen, I don’t like telling this stuff to strangers but I’m worried that’s what we are sometimes. So before it gets too far down the line and I’m remembering you with a smile you’ll never see. Please, hear me out, and acknowledge that my somber nothings have a reason.

Ten words is just one sentence, no matter how powerful.

I'd like to say, that it doesn't matter what words I use, what stories I write, that I don't lie awake at night trying to turn my broken memories into something, anything meaningful for others to use, so they get a better view of life than the bitter one I got. But I'd be lying.

And I'd like to say, that lying is something I'm not used to, that every word I speak is truer than the last, every "I'm ok." and "I love you." Is a phrase I never knew before the moment it's said, I'd like to say that.
But I'd be lying.

I'd like to say, that I've never rehearsed a fake smile, never been down for a while over something so heartbreaking it left me shaking in a fragile state of mind that drew a line for me to follow all the way to nowhere.
But I'd be lying.

And I'd like to say, that it doesn't matter to me, wether people can see what I mean, that I can put on a smile and tell them "It's ok." like a normal routine, and wake up every day feeling happier than I've ever been, but I'd be lying.

I’m breaking down,
‘Cause I hear no sound,
Except for the laughter,
that I’m hearing loud.

From memories of you,
And memories of me,
Why can’t they just go,
Now I’m trying to breathe.

I want you to stay,
But I just can’t say,
I don’t want you to go now,
So baby please stay.

I don’t want you to go now,
So baby please stay.

Because the best part of me,
Has always been you,
And I just can’t see,
Myself starting anew.

I always kept quiet,
But here is the truth,
I always kept quiet,
Except around you.

Oh yes I always kept quiet,
Except around you...

If I’m being honest, I say that a lot. And if I’m being honest I don’t know how to say I love you because maybe it isn’t true anymore, maybe it never was. And on some level we both knew that, but I was still willing to try. I was still willing to give my heart away and shouldn’t that count for something more than a welcome mat? That overused tired old analogy everyone loves to say. Used every day by millions of people, isn’t that fitting? I show care for you, you spurn me and yet I still hold out hope. It isn’t fair you know? I’m so attached to this thing called a heart that if I don’t start listening to it I fall apart, but it’s you that made it this way, or me, I don’t know. If I’m being honest I can’t say I love you, but I can say I hate to.

If my innocence had a name, how would it be spelled? Crooked with C's or crossed with X's, maybe straight-laced with L's, sometimes bent at the ends?

If my innocence had a name, what would it be? Simple like Adam, or sweet like Eve? Would it mirror mine, or choose to be free?

If my innocence had a name, would I bother to remember? Or surrender my thoughts to the remedy of amnesia, that seeks to soothe me in times of need?

If my innocence had a name, would I even want to know? So time could choose when it would go and leave me here alone, with nothing but a memory of who my innocence used to be?

If my innocence had a name, I've forgotten how to say it. Laid to waste in this mind of mine, that hates to hold on, to the good times.

If you were God, man kind could not have created fire fast enough to appease you. We would all be doomed to a life in the void as we are not worthy of your presence in heaven. Made solely in your image scattered about in many frames, you would smite us all for the imperfections we were made with purely because they might be a reflection of you.

You take on this world alone by choice and complain that no one can measure up to you. But of course that's true when you measure our strides in inches and yours by the mile half finished.

Once upon a time, I knew how to write. I knew every line, every word like they were child's play came to me with ease and speed to say the perfect thing in just the right way to say the thought that was stuck on my mind. The thing is, that was back then, when I believed in "Once upon a time."

My gift came first with the gentle game of love, and left with it's heart-break curse. I'd put pen to paper to write a verse that would take away all doubt of my genuine aspersions, as days marked the preparation it took for me to work up the courage to even try to find the perfect words, but it was all worth it. After all, what greater call is there to a sleeping heart than that of love?

But alas my gift was dashed upon the rocks like my fairy tale hopes, and I spent the next few years moping about how I'd lost it all. I tried to write, to express how I felt, but nothing ever felt right.

And now I feel I've lost my way. All my words have left me today, and soon there will be nothing to say.

So with the few lines I have left in my head, I just want to say that once upon a time..

I knew how to write.

Politics is the war of words, where conceit and defeat are closer linked than kin and ties of blood. To accept peace through understanding is the mark of both a fool and a king, who’s impact is long-lasting throughout the ages.

But why accept the calming touch of tranquility, when financially, a ****** victory is worth so much more? And so the words turn to weapons more fearsome than debate,
to the elated joy of generals separate from the populace.

Who have no stake in this to claim, other than placing food upon the tables of their families, remembering proudly the name of the man that came home changed from the war, that started over nothing more than words.

O heart stop thy beating for too rapidly do emotions fly. To easily do they flood all sense of logic and cause it to run in passionate strides.

Who is she to cause such a rhythm as if in sync with the music of life? She plays her part exactly on cue, for long dead hopes she does revive as feelings of love wash over you.

And all too soon you would give of yourself just to see a measly smile, for that is what you know of love and the part it plays in your story.

Only through care, by sacrifice may you show your affection and thus by reflection you curse your lot in this life as you may only live in loves shadow.

And while we’re on the subject,
I’m sorry in advance,
That you ever had to hear this,
For giving it a chance.

But I’m sorry is what I say,
When I can’t say everything,
It’s the lie I use to paint over the truth,
With a better story.

It’s the half-truth of apologies,
Ringing hollow In reality,
You see I’m sorry is my defense,
It’s the difference between shy and confident.

I’m sorry is everything I meant,
That went unheard,
The words that couldn’t escape,
The critical mass of anxiety.

I’m sorry means listening,
To the words I didn’t say,
It’s my apology to you,
For me feeling that way.

But most of all,
I’m sorry is every opportunity missed,
Every time I wish I had the courage,
To speak a little more,
I’m sorry makes it out,
Before I even had a chance.

Across the oceans and the skies, I've searched for angles low and high, some were bright and others dull, but all I'd hoped, could soothe my soul.

The first I'd found was fond of fun, a flattering sort by trade, used her wit and silver-tounge, to steal my heart away.

Her honied words the sweetest lies, ever heard by any ear, well rehearsed and often tried, though rarely true I fear.

I have no leg to stand upon,
physically and metaphorically so,
When it comes to the world of pain.
And how ironic is this, that bliss should overtake me when drawing upon that well.

As I’ve had my fair share,
Of scars to bare, when it comes to conflict.
Yet when looking at it by that lens,
I find it necessary to append the phrase,
“It’s not so bad.”

Because those days have come and gone,
And many more will follow,
So when time comes to call upon,
The pain I’ve gladly wallowed in,
I have no leg to stand upon,
And so my sorrow ends.

The only crime I was ever guilty of, and the worst one to date, was waiting too long to say I love you..

Like the sun loves the moon but watches it pass by every day,

Like the angels so awe-struck by the beauty of you, there are no words to say,
Like the sea rising up to meet the shore only to say goodbye again, I waited..

I waited on what my heart knew was the right call,
Because I have fallen so many times before.
But you have never let me down..

And so today I say I’m sorry,
For I stand accused and on trial for the greatest crime a heart commits,
A love never known...

My passion’s dead or simply dying,
And though I’m trying to understand what’s left,
I’m finding it impossible to make any headway,
In a headspace so jam packed with memories and remedies for things I don’t even know about, I have my doubts about what I can trust, but if I must listen to my thoughts I’ll quit chasing what I think they forgot, and listen to myself for once even though it’s just a shell upon a shelf of losing touch.

The gift in pens,
fit to ascend,
mere mortals to the mantle of the heavens,
has left me in a state of haste...to die in place of a goodbye that was never said.

And I’d say it now,
but no one is around to hear,
that could appreciate the sound like you.
In truth, my memories speak “I’m sorries” soft enough to make angles weep at what will never be heard...and my final words to you will forever be said regretfully.

Respectfully yours,
A memory.

It was peaceful last night..I got on a bus, so happy about where we were going. Thinking of beautiful islands, ships, and little drink umbrellas, When I was informed by a holy man that you had died.

To my surprise I felt no pain from this, no never ending stream of tears to drown out my loss and make it whole, as though a single one shed could toss me from the outskirts of acceptance.

Seconds passed, this I know, then minutes, maybe hours before I dared to move again. When the bus screeched to a halt, the man who had told me, he said we arrived.

I simply reached in my pocket, grabbed my old phone, and told him I'd get off at the next spot. With a sigh of compassion, he said he understood, and I stayed quiet there, for long minutes of thought.

Then finally, what had been weighing so heavy on my mind had moved to my lips, and I couldn't bare the strain of silence anymore. Without thought or control I yelled, "How could you know?!"

The man smiled at me apologetically and said she went to his church. This had only left me outraged, as my mind was met with even more questions. Until he finally told me to check my phone.

Confused and angry, I nearly smashed the thing in protest of the entire affair. But the man could see this, and stayed my hand. He gave a warm smile, and told me that all would be clear after I read the messages.

Then for a moment, my senses returned and I took the man's word for truth. I looked at my phone, away from the games I had up to distract, and saw their, that my inbox read "2."

I paused for a moment, unsure of what to trust, or maybe to do, and hovered my finger over the keys. I wanted to move forward, I wanted to press on, but I knew I'd have to accept whatever I saw as truth, and for a moment the temptation was there to reject the affair and hit "delete" as a fool.

But try as I did, I couldn't bring myself to do it. To wipe away, what I knew could be your last words to me, any memories I could hold to in these defining moments.

So I pressed the button, to see the messages there. The first I read slowly, a note which read so sweetly as to say goodbye. It held your favorite slang, like a casual conversation. And had sections name by name, addressed to every person.

First your mother, then your father, then your brother, and sister too. Every name you had addressed, they loved you through and through. And when I read, your words aloud, it was clear that this you knew. But could not bare the thought of how, we'd all be missing you.

I read the words, line by line, and your sweet words rang true. I tried my best, but could not find, my last words from you.

Then I realized, that you had left a second note for me to read. Addressed to me in so tender a tone, that my heart did skip a beat.

I read the words and dropped my phone, I couldn't seem to move. I tried my best to thank the man through the tears that I was weeping. But he simply smiled and held up his hand, as his eyes followed suit.

What can I say but goodbye sweet love.
Goodbye to the thrill of conversation for hours on end,
Goodbye to waking up at 2 AM because you thought of me when you couldn't sleep.
Goodbye to sparks flying every time I saw you,
Goodbye to what I could never express because every time I tried you'd take my breath away.
Goodbye to love, see you yesterday.

You ever think you’re tired of paradise? Honestly what’s the difference between here and the afterlife? It’s not like you’re trapped, you can go wherever you please, see what you want to see, honestly the only thing holding you back is earthly attachments. A job, a house, a car, there’s too many bat-**** people kicking it here waiting for the sequel like that’s gonna be better. Honestly ask yourself if the difference between here and heaven is a wealth of positivity why’s it so impossible for you to be happy down here? I think the answer is clear, you’re tired of paradise.

It is that same optimistic pessimism. That ephemeral, translucent feeling..which gives me life and meaning. When taken to the extreme, the world becomes cold. Everything fades. Who I am ceases to be, and in my place, a force of absolute clarity emerges, in the realization that in the grand scheme, nothing matters.

I have witnessed this happen. I have watched myself die. Time and time again have I, sat back and wondered why it is that I cannot stop this sequence of events,
  from unfolding in front of me. When clarity strikes and I realize that the man I have been does not matter anymore, just as before,
I wonder,
Why?

I have talked to my fellow man on the subject. I have come to know their mannerisms, their discomforts, their quieted discussions hushed for fear that insanity looms, and I have grown to assume the worst of them..that in the end, most are blind to the truth of these deaths.

Subtle in nature and slow in their pace, these key moments race to define who we are by summarizing who we have been up to the point of contact with them. From that point of derision, a part of our life is forever etched in memory, wether we remember or not.

After a period of time, who we are can no longer be defined by any measure of who have been. We are a collection of key moments, fractures and schisms form the face for what we have become. In the end, a personality template, made whole by the mention of a few distant names, certain days are remembered forever, while others fade away into obscurity.

We are nothing but the deaths of who we once were, compounded from birth to keep us interesting.

The first was cursed to love a man,
Who never knew the word.
As though rehearsed,
It was his plan,
To leave her in the dirt.

He spoke of only lies until,
One day he had been caught,
And still she loved for who he was,
Though not the man she thought.

The second was beckoned,
To try her hand,
At a game of making-match,
Odds were low,
But chance be ******,
It was all the chance she had.

At first she found,
The game had worked,
Though not as was intended,
He struck her down,
With more than words,
And then their love was ended.

The third had heard her call to love,
But never did she listen,
She searched for those,
Who gave their hearts,
And all of their attention.

And so she saw that none would last,
Because she never looked,
For those who chose to call her name,
Were fearful, shy, and shook,
So they watched her slip away,
Until they stopped and walked away,
And all were left with longing.

By right and will of ink and quill,
The young prince sits atop his gilded throne,
But when aught runs dry and naught can fill,
What can stop the thoughts alone?

Alone is he, alone am I,
Trapped inside of what it means,
To reflect upon a time,
Where I was once a better me.

Where words flowed forth like sacred wine,
And from that alter leapt great praise,
When stars saw fit then to align,
And summon the great glory days.

Who am I in place of that,
but a shadow affixed to roaring flame?
Of passions high and blazing fast,
All praise be to faded name.

Selfish little savior,
Cares too much for them,
Selfish little savior,
Who keeps it locked within.

Selfish little savior,
Who takes on all their woes,
Selfish little savior,
Or so the record shows.

Selfish little savior,
Who makes himself feel good,
Selfish little savior,
Who never understood.

Selfish little savior,
Who writes these empty words,
Selfish little savior,
In hopes of finding worth.

Selfish little savior,
Who always sits alone,
Selfish little savior,
Taking for his own.

Selfish little savior,
Finds meaning in the pain,
Selfish little savior,
Plays his little game.

Selfish little savior,
Who knows of little else,
Selfish little savior,
Helps others for himself.

She dances there, in stutter-step,
To match the beating of my heart.
An angel fair, pirouettes forever in my mind, spinning gracefully back and forth.
Every now and then she calls to me, summoning back feelings long since forgotten. Of joy and trust, true love and hope, and for a moment, I remember this is my home. I swore I’d never come back here, but here I am. Memories are weird like that, when you least expect it, they can make you smile.

Music for a muse is a wonderful thing,
To hear the voices carry as angels sing,
And show you then their vibrant wings,
Of hope and hate reflected so,
Out on the winds, the proud loud notes.

A lullaby or siren’s song,
To keep you writing all night long,
The lower basses standing strong,
To carry with them the old tune,
And your interpretation soon.

My brother,
The sinner,
Can we go back?
To a time before broken heart beginnings,
Where happiness dared to be unending,
And our joys would outlast the sun?
Before one-winged angels became our shared memory,
Before the only remedy we knew was finding peace in others,
Can we learn to be ourselves again?
Can we make a smile our natural fit,
Like when we were kids, remember?
Now when we meet all we can do is reminisce and smile,
But it feels unnatural to say the least.
Like the beast of burden, the scars and the hurt then were too much to bear.
So I'll meet you in the middle,
Let's start fresh and forget everything we used to know.
The cost of a lost love,
The weight of a heavy heart,
And the sting of the words that sparked a bullet,
Nothing matters anymore,
As long as we can smile again.

From spirit to echo,
From father to son,
I am neither, and both at once.
It is not my place to say,
That in the infinite expanse of life,
I mean anything.
Yet my father proclaims we are the world,
And everything.

He does so with quiet clarity,
Reveling with a drink in one hand.
Oh, what a sad and clairvoyant man.
He speaks of wisdom beyond his years,
Yet with the courage of several beers,
And who am I, to judge his choice,
When he so often represses voice?

A quiet dream should be celebrated, not killed.
And I fear that spark is all but dying,
So in the moments of his clarity,
I sit and I listen, for fear of denying destiny.
He speaks as I, once did, and so,
I consider his words as beautiful prose,
Of death, and dying, of breath, and life,
I ponder them all, as forgotten advice.

A lucky little moment, of wisdom to be saved,
Speaking solely to me, and my glory days,
Where tales were once written,
Of dinners and of guests,
And betrayals in order,
To sort out the rest.
That was the first one, I ever wrote,
A poem, like the Bible, to a girl of note.
Not of love, and cheesy, ****** lines,
But an allegory for Jesus, and the way that he died.

And I did this with passion,
No fear, and no doubt,
It was a wonderful creation,
That spontaneous spout.
Such wordplay and wisdom, inspired by love,
Is one thing, I’m missing,
With no memory of.

Well I hear those accusations,
And I face’em well and true,
Yeah I hear those accusations,
From saints I never knew.

Now I’m not an honest man,
But a caring giving soul,
Said I’m not an honest man,
But years have taken toll.

And I ain’t a very simple man,
At least not the way I was,
No I ain’t a very simple man,
This life is just too much.

So I beg you hold your judgment,
Until the very end,
Said I beg you hold your judgment,
Of my most honest sin.

‘Cause I did the heavy deed,
Dreadful as it were,
Oh yes I did the heavy deed,
But hear me out good sir.

Ain’t a man like me,
Could do what needs be done,
No there ain’t a man like me,
Sittin’ under sun.

The truth is that I killed’em,
And now I face that day,
‘Cause the truth is that I killed’em,
And I don’t feel no shame.

If I’m being honest,
I’ve never got this,
So hold my beer,
It’s ever-clear,
Doesn’t exist,
I guess I missed that class,
Never party,
Never study,
Just a lazy-***,
But if you need me I’ll be here,
That’s more than most can say,
You need a savior then say no more,
Just say my name,
But it doesn’t matter,
Give it 2 weeks time,
You’ll forget it all the same,
But that’s all I’ve got,
How do I live for myself?
I forgot.

So I sit on a shelf,
Like a bottle of pills,
Medication self-help,
Just human-sized,
But if I’m being honest,
I’m tired of the lies,
I care,
I’m here,
I’ve heard it a million times,
Not to say I’m wounded,
But I know you are,
And I’m still here,
Right from the start,
So go on,
Tell me one more time,
Straight from the bleeding heart.

In reconciliation with my own contemplation, I have to say that, life is taking me down a peg.

But I’ve tried to make the best of it, what’s left of this, a quiet voice that’s too easy to dismiss, fades into nothingness in the presence of absent love.

But it’s enough to know my thoughts are mine to keep. So when I try to speak them, rhymes come out in rhythm as a way to be defensive, dismissively accounting for every word I’m doubting, so I seem less apprehensive.

But I feel the weight of silence sometimes too much to be quiet, inner thoughts get violent when saying things I m dealing with.
“We’ve clipped your wings, it’s happening, this life’s just passing you by. We know it stings, it’s sad to see, so why do you ever try?”

So I write them down to get them out, here in the open. It’s what I’ve found to deal with bouts, of depression as I’m coping. But I show these words to those I love, and rejection is expected, so when it’s all been said and done, silence is all I’m left with.

Writing old and writing dead,
Writing here what’s left unsaid,
To say that I could never write,
And put an end to it’s delight.

From hopes and dreams I’ve made my case,
Weak and weary fit to break,
And from those ashes nothing flies,
Not a Phoenix within sight.

But I keep writing just the same,
To cling and cradle dying flame,
Born of love, a hope, a dream,
A tired dove now out of steam.

And who could blame the holding on,
To tired fame when muse is gone,
No halo, prayer, or feathered wing,
To hear these dying hopes and dreams.

Ah to be the only one awake,
To hear so clearly the sounds of nothing,
To track the hours by time spent freely,
To greet the night as moonlight breaks.

This is the life of that lonesome bird,
Who spreads it's wings and twists it's head,
This is the life of that humble creature,
Who sees the sun and greets it's bed.

A quiet thing when all alone,
It finds this state to be it's home,
And in this place of gentle rest,
It stays awake or tries it's best.

But life it seems will not relent,
For daybreak signals most to rise,
The sun is here; you must repent,
For most of life surfs daylight tides.

As work will come with daylight's call,
To see their heavy eyelids fall,
These quiet birds will seem to stall,
For nighttime fun has sapped them all.

But soon enough they will withdraw,
Back to their nesting homes so sweet,
And in that place they'll close their eyes,
To send off daylight with goodbyes.

And they will wake again to see,
That moon of theirs so happily,
To make them smile and sing and dance,
They all celebrate a calm pale glow.

They sing her praise to warm her heart,
For they know her well and true,
That pale blue mistress called the moon,
Has seen them all gliding through the night.


The birds with wings and tilted heads,
Are of course night owls solemn and quiet,
Listen clearly to all they've said,
For their hooting holds wisdom on lonely nights.

To the weary one who travels alone,
Know that you are free,
Untethered by destiny,
Your choice is your own.
Your path may never be set,
But don’t ever forget who you are.
A traveler, a seeker, a curious heart,
Steps heavy in the dark,
Searching for a part you never found,
Scared you’ll amount to nothing,
Fumbling your way through,
One sunrise to the next.
But never forget,
You are the change and the unchecked.
Never forget this life is yours,
So before you get scared,
Remember no one was prepared for this life.
I promise we all find our place in time.

When the writing feels stiff and stifled,
Uninviting where once delightful,
Where do you hang a pen?
From end to end I’ve searched my soul,
I’ve looked within, I’ve paid the toll,
I’ve strolled deep down that memory lane,
But writing now just feels too plain.
So I ask you now my dear old friend,
My dried up, withered, wilting pen,
Where do I hang you in the end?
With words all gone and want well spent,
What show you now in your defense,
But passion’s long and growing blaze,
Died to embers in it’s place?
Have you nothing left to say,
With such old and fading grace?
Where do I hang you in dismay?
To say goodbye and walk away.

It used to be that I could write of love when I knew you, but the truth is those feelings are gone. Long buried in years of hate, in a state I don’t understand. Without you by my side, I don’t know who I am. A god with no muse, now simply a man.

In all my hollow glory, I venerate your chapter in the story with such reverence. I remark on your commitment to togetherness with an asterisk, and leave a footnote in the margins that reads, “Meaningless.”

Forgive me for saying this, I’ve lost my way, clearly. Please, let me rephrase...

My dear angel, it’s been several years since a difference of opinion has left us divided. In all that time, I’ve decided to write you and say, I’m sorry for the way we ended. Far be it from me to build our love upon a foundation which was honesty dependent..I’ve learned the error of my ways.

Which is to say, that “I love you” has become a hollow thing, sweet to be sure, but a sweet nothing all the same. So I will remember you with nothing, and leave you on those words, I love you.

Simply,
A man.

There are times when I doubt,
More often than I want to admit,
Whether it’s worth it to say I love you,
For the 100th time.
Because even though you’ve only heard it once,
You’re always on my mind,
And I’ve written 99 bad rhymes trying to figure out just the right way to say,
I love you.

But honestly, I feel like it loses worth the more we use those words.
From moment to moment,
Minute to minute, hour to hour,
The power of those words,
is found somewhere between often,
And never,
Just common enough to be delightful,
But rare in a way that a tactical box of chocolates and 99 bad rhymes are just clever enough to mean the world..

So I’m sorry if I try too much to make those moments perfect, but I want I love you to be worth the phrase,
And when I look at you,
I know that saying it was worth the wait.

My words are not my own, but the echoes of a man who has long since died, and left to me in his will, a blueprint for how to live his life. I’d like to tell you that this death occurred at the site of a dashed love, believe me, I would. But the fact of the matter is, I simply do not know. And the lie I have clung to these many years has grown old and tired. So instead, I will tell you the truth, or attempt to.

For the last few years, I have not felt like myself. I have begun to question who “myself” truly is. Spare me any notions of a high school grad taking a year off of their studies to find themselves, I’m aware of the parallels and I despise them. I’ve spent far more than a year in this predicament and I would wish it upon no man. Yet someone has the audacity to believe they can discover the whole of what it means to exist in a year? Let alone believe such knowledge to be a benefit to them. The very notion has me shaking my head in sympathies!

But I digress. That is what I do after all. You see I am a writer by passion, but there is the problem, passion. For nearly a decade now my writing has felt lacking, hollow. Not to others apparently, but very much so for myself. Friends and loved ones tell me I write fairly well for someone of my age, but they do not know what I do. If they were privy to how the words sound before they reach the page, if only they could see how the world looks before I touch it, they would see how truly hollow my depictions are.

This is my problem. At one point, I felt comfortable with my own skill in creating a fantastical world. Now however I feel as if I am continually attempting to build the Taj Mahal, and getting credit for building the Hagia Sophia, or is it a table from Ikea? I can never remember.

There is power in who I am,
And from the hill where I stand,
I can’t see myself in your happy little kingdom,
For the crown that I wear is made of roses and rings,
To go with things left unsaid,
You say I’m insane but I’m king in my head,
And so I decree, come sunrise with glee,
All shall be free to rule their own mind,
In the odd-kind kingdom.

A great collapse, the way of life, shall see great men fall and feeble rise. Around the wheel the cycle goes, from noble birth to battle cry. The earth is my kingdom, for  kingdom will I die. Let not my name be forgotten, my every merit in life, tied to something so repeated, it nearly loses meaning. I the great king, emperor, chief, ruler, believe my duty to be divine. I number in the thousands, but this legacy is mine.

I’ve seen the place where women drive low
The spirits of good men and play the victim. I’ve seen unconquerable hearts fall under the siege of great Helen and question their own self-worth. Likewise I have seen Alexander spread his influence too far and ruin what could have been the world’s greatest empire, until he is forced to burn his own cities to the ground rather than concede defeat. It is easy to lose your way and view the world by this great struggle, but don’t. I can tell you that even as a bystander to that line of thinking, I’ve been caught in it’s grasp on both ends. It’s a poison, a lie created by vulnerable hearts so they can play the victim like it’s something to be proud of. Instead, remember that there are good people in this world who are completely separate from that struggle, and you could be too.

Now hope is good and hope is strong, but pain had stayed, for far too long, to see him cry and watch him fall, pain was there, through it all.

This pain he knew, now all too well, had swallowed hope, and left a shell, its brittle make, a jaded shape, left nothing then, for pain to take.

He cursed his name, and others too, because of pain, no one knew, but who could blame, a young mans curse, when dealt a hand, of luck reversed?

To live a life, of woes unfair, plagued by strife, as fate declared, that he would know, the pain of chance, all alone, in circumstance.

To make it worse, no one tried, to hear his words, and soothe his mind, they laughed at him, and mocked his pain, until he lost, all hope again.

No shock then, that he had shattered, weighed down so, by years of pain, though he cared, for all that mattered, no one dared, do the same.

So he gave himself, to all around, in hopes that he, could see them through, the pain they felt, when they were down, as pain to him, was nothing new.