somedays i'm more scared
than       the  others

more susceptible to the
diseases of the mind

that lay their bare hands
on my chest and
                     weave it down

hammer on the uncertainty
of the coming morning

meld the steel that dangles
from the ceiling

waiting to pounce at any
suffocating moment of
                          failure and dread

in the dead of the night
when the sun awakens

and ever so suddenly
the moon burst into flames

have all the stars fall in a
fiery ball of madness

circling the streets sniffing
at the despair of the
                            crying children

perching on the threads of
looming crisis of faith and
                            all things miserable

the melancholy of which is
lost on the swaying trees and
                           the singing birds

that is all over the news in
small fine print

while an angry man on the TV screams at people for not paying attention

over and over
again and again; until
it is time for the magic
of make belief:

only if magic was a real thing
so many things would have been
possible

the kind that lives in your
head and prospers in your mind

the kind Charlie Kaufman
knows about.

underneath the skin
fish swim in circles

and all the words I've kept
have turned to Ash and
I've been keeping to myself

behind these four walls
there's no ceiling to climb
and my head won't stop bleeding

there are no feelings
in my piggy-bank

I've used all the change
and I'm still the same

every morning I wake up
thinking about you

and the life we could've
had, the life I could've had

but I couldn't do it to you
couldn't do it for you

maybe I deserve nothing
and that's why I keep myself
from jumping

running away forever
flying into the sunset

drowning
I need to go fishing.

while my head gently weeps
and my soul is awake

i find myself drifting
a length in time

and there's nothing that
i can do

but pass softly
onto the next moment

marked by days and
months of restless afternoons

breathless nights awake
smoking aimlessly

trying to recall your
fading face and

the things we used to
talk about for hours a
lifetime ago

how is that every sad
thought leads me back to
you ?

the ripe winds
perch upon the threads of
western disturbance

trading through the
vastness of liquid turmoil

flowing and cutting
across the narrowest
of vengeance

that has laid upon
this land flourishing
under a disguise:
of mere nothingness and
certain similarity;

for who knows
what converses with the
frigid north

and talks to the
passes of the mighty
peaks of middle Asia

walking past the grandeur
of the Himalayas, and it's
many ancient towns

where no other
has been of any importance
whatsoever

there in the sweet solace
of solitude and crisp sunrises

i find myself dreaming
of the tranquil winds, and
ancient passageways:

far from Nazareth and
the cradle of men

where the old brick
roads now sleep in dusk

and there's nothing
left to conquer

built upon the spectacular
-- on this olden earth

i find myself yearning
for little things.

the ripe winds
perch upon the threads of
western disturbance












days dissolve in sadness
find me when this ends

tell me about your
experiences

lets go for a walk
before it's too late

i'm awake just
for you

and i never sleep when
you are not looking

i stay still until the
alarm rings

and it is your time
to leave

early morning when
the songbird sings

there you are
never here

you've loved me in
the spring

and i've been in love
with you ever since

dying of sadness on
a tuesday








trading through the
vastness of liquid turmoil

flowing and cutting
across the narrowest
of vengeance

that has laid upon
this land flourishing
under a disguise:
of mere nothingness and
certain similarity;

for who knows
what converses with the
frigid north

and talks to the
passes of the mighty
peaks of middle Asia

walking past the grandeur
of the Himalayas, and it's
many ancient towns

where no other
has been of any importance
whatsoever

there in the sweet solace
of solitude and crisp sunrises

i find myself dreaming
of the tranquil winds, and
ancient passageways:

far from Nazareth and
the cradle of men

where the old brick
roads now sleep in dusk

and there's nothing
left to conquer

built upon the spectacular
-- on this olden earth

i find myself yearning
for little things.

how many times have I sat in a cafe alone

empty chairs to keep me company.

with a brave face, and tensed brows

trying to look past the hazy blur that
seems to have caught me in trance.

sipping on the bitter coffee to remind me there's something to live for

and finish before I leave here, be gone for maybe what could be my last time

of sitting alone in a cafe, of people and chatter to keep me company,


I used to like it here.

between, there lies my burden
on my knees i am but a servant

serving at your feet as i've done
a thousand times before

swollen gaze
resting upon your eyes

i can't flinch
and catch me by surprise  

bound in chains, kissed by
******* --

i want to taste your
addictive lies

corrupted conscience
lost in sermons

you're so vindictive it'll
never suffice

you and i cannot
survive

in this malfunctioning
world

spiralling through summer
as it grows

into autumn, uncertain,
of the winter that passes by

in that weakness i find myself
drawn to you

in your arms of ruthless
subversion

suffocate me with your
fruitful diversions

the more i am awake
more it worsens

i'm barely alive haunted
by desertion

desperate for an escape
from this burden

yours even   ever after,
i am truly yours.