We dreaded this day
When this clock finally struck
Words can't express this
Yet, I am happy
For all that we have became
A friend, a lover
No need for anger
We showed love and compassion
This was true romance
Take care of yourself
I'll think about you everyday
The best memory
The flower blows in the air.
It blossoms, silent, pure.
Mountains erupting, ready to sin.
The calm before the storm is the only cure.
The valley becomes one,
While the sky eats the sun.
Nothing will stop its path.
Only the garden can stop it's wrath.
Only the wind can make this last.
Empty truths is all I am.
But I'm trying to be all I can.
Without giving any effort.
I just lie so I can feel the comfort.
Deep down it digs deep into my skin.
My demons come out and win.
I'm just a helpless romantic.
Lingering in the past with all its frantic.
I just get lost in my head like a dead sea.
When I should blossom like a tree.
I'm a different person everyday.
Drinking on each day.
Sipping on gin to La Dispute.
Crying to Grizzly Bear like a *******.
Walking alone on this earth.
Hating on life since birth.
Who have I become?
Trying to be something, not a slum.
I want to live life.
But I am a ruin with all this strife.
I just want to scream at the world.
All I want to do is make my voice be heard.
Darkness covers your soul.
Sinking, twirling in a bowl.
Changing you into this demon.
Your mind stuck in thought, you screamin.
Suffocating in your hopes.
Choking you, like your neck in ropes.
You rise from the ashes.
Because your heart is filled with passion.
Nothing can ever stop what you believe.
Because you know exactly what you need to achieve.
Just stay true to your roots.
Branches grow, deceiving you.
But you grow.
Stronger each year.
Conquering what you believe in.
The coffee had settled to a temperature few could drink with any pleasure. The cursor impatiently blinked against the empty word document as he sat defeated by the previous one hundred attempts to write a single sentence. He could not be a writer, he thought, writers do not spend hours in front of blank screens, staring blankly and drawing blanks. They are full of original stories which overflow from the gray matter of their brains, spilling out from the tips of their fingers as they beat atop plastic keys like Mozart realizing symphonies as he glide across the ivory teeth of a fortepiano. He was right; he was no writer, not yet. In this instance of doubt like Schrödinger’s cat, both men, the writer and the not-writer inhabited the same chair, the same space in time waiting to be woke by a single decision. If he decided he was not a writer than all potential realities collapse into one and the writer dies in that chair. I'm no Edward Lorenz and I don't know much about butterfly effects but what if this is one of those microscopic events that changes the initial conditions and forever alters the data set? What if a masterpiece is lost on a whim? I so badly want to communicate all of this to him but I can't, because I am remembering a distant memory of the moment I lost the man I was suppose to be.