There’s so much beauty, looking around.
I’m not awake early enough to witness and appreciate.
The art of God.
The birds and the rough feel of bark.
Maybe I stopped believing a while ago, a long, long time ago.
But there’s that fear, isn’t there?
Always.
The flowers wilt before summer has come, but they’re used to an early death.
There’s shattered glass everywhere you look, bottles of arrogance and misery more than drunkenness.
No matter how many shards I pick up and clean, someone will get hurt.
Someone is always made to carry hurt.
Right now we move so fast, miles and miles at a time, nobody slows for you.
You’ll never make it if you can’t run.
And It never turns out how you want,
but I think that’s the meaning of God.
To pray for salvation, for something that cannot be saved, hoping.

Close your eyes, imagine, and believe now.
Easy, right?
Not if you don’t have the heart for it.
Not if even after everything, you realise that maybe I don’t want this.
Are there words enough to describe a self hatred so pure, and so perfect?
You haven’t gone anywhere, yet you grow old and weary now, no love to feed on, no fire to sit close by and warm your bones.
Our ‘one day soon’ is here now.
The doors are closed before they were open, there is no key to open a door with no lock.
To once have been so tall and proud and now effortlessly sink deeper and deeper with every smile I offer the world, with each day that I choose to ignore and forget.
The urge to run to you is constant, relentless. Towards the clouds, the setting sun, or whichever direction you point me, but will I? Will I finally choose you?
I don’t know.