Why am I so sad all the time?
It creeps up on me at the strangest times.
I could be just sitting in bed,
and then two minutes later I’m posed with the razor at my wrist.
It comes on me like a creature in the night;
I never see it approach, but as soon as I feel it,
I think “How could it have been anything else?”
I never know why it happens when it does,
I only ever know when I’m in the middle of the storm.
Except the storm is only raging in my head.
It’s so hard to ask for a life preserver when no one can see you’re drowning.
I try so hard to be a normal one.
Somehow, it always shines through the cracks,
then everyone gets to see the madness within me.
They all say I need help,
but I need them to hear that the voices screaming in my head are their own.
I don’t think any of them truly understand
what it’s like having voices yell the most heinous things at me all day.
But the worst part isn’t what the voices say,
those are my own words anyway,
no the worst part it that the voices are those of my should-be champions;
my best friends, my sisters, my brother, my father, and my mother.
Their imaginary words cut deeper than the blades
because I always wonder if these are the things they think about me in their own heads.
Do they think that I’m as fat as they tell me in my head?
Do they see every flaw in my face as I do?
Do they really disregard me as useless as I know I am?
Do they want me dead like I do?

Fate, fate, fate
well what an awful mess I've made
tried to solve this jigsaw puzzle
ended up hardening the shapes

Oh fate
falling like a thousand bricks in my way
foils my plans
of loving you properly
destiny, you tender tease

Why?
Why'd you shatter my bones?
Leave me lost, void of control
in a shallow grave I made
lay my former misguided passions
covering shackles on my legs

lose lose lose
all I ever seem to do
when all that I comprehend
I try to hang it on a noose
inside a

room room room
filled with opaque absolutes
and curried apprehension
broken bottles with no excuse

Remedy, oh remedy
my free will thinker
embodied by poisoned truths
I dream of only you
sweet, sour dues of resurrection
have yet to stumble in my life,
promising no goodbyes

But fate fate fate
Led my former love astray
It's better this way
It's better this way

You mean nothing to me
All you're good for
Is some ****** poetry

wrinkles of fire,
parting the atmospheric
sea surrounding.
lost within
the flame,
i watch my troubles
flowing
into the smoke,
drifting into
the wind,
dancing upon
the void.
floating ever upwards,
whispering
my troubles
to the transcendent
ears of the
angles that hide
in the spaces
of silence and
the moments
of darkness
between the stars.

Sitting,waiting in the bus shelter,
the mind is led by roving thoughts
from the now and here
into fields often not explored
whereto the feet hesitate to stray.

I sit there seeing the world hurry on,
not really looking at the people all around
but thinking back;thinking about those
who used to walk these same streets
who used to hurry off just so.

The roads may have forgotten their tread,
their faces blurred by time,
their voice masked by life's din,
soon to be faded into memory;
our love glossing over their faults.

But what of their stories?
What of the things left unsaid?
What of the questions unanswered?
What of their talents not passed down?
What of the bonds,the people undone?

Are their stories lost?
Never meant to be finished?
Small and unimportant enough
to be cut off,be discarded?
Lives destined for the void?

But what of those left behind?
Stories tainted by that void?
Hearts burdened b their absence?
Eyes wearied of waiting?
Dreams filled with longing?

The bus arrives with that sureness
of the things that come and go.
Boarding it,I sit next to a window
and let it carry me away like I've let
those things that come and go.

Gazing out the window,
I see life rushing past me.
And a desire takes hold of me
for this journey to go on,
to keep moving while immobile.

I think of those stories unfinished,
stories seen through a man's eyes,
read with a man's wisdom.
But what if that is not all?
What if there is more?

What if some questions are
never meant to be answered?
Some things be left unsaid?
Some talents never to be passed on
but define the person lost and him alone?

What if the stories left behind
are meant to be tainted that way?
To bear a fragrance like no other,
the void marking them for perfection.
What if people are meant to be undone?

What if the stories are not lost
but merged with the living ones?
To fuel them,to further them,
to be a muse to spur them,
be a core in their shaping?

Wistful thinking all,devised to soothe.
The mind awash with torrential thoughts
still hears a small voice of hope,
holding on to it while hanging
above a chasm of decadence.

Every night we go to bed
trusting the angels guarding us
to let happen what is right;
slipping into peaceful oblivion,unsure
whether we will wake from it again.

All these thoughts,these stories float
as leaves on that river called Life.
Whether we be afloat or under,
it flows;the grand story goes on
crafted by The Great Writer.

After all the broken hopes
dare we still hope on
as did Abraham of old,
hoping where there is none,
seeing life where there is death?

Dare we still dream on?
Dare we hope our stories
will not be left unfinished
thinking,wanting to believe that
Life is Hope is Life?