It feels like I'm dying.

Uh, pain.
Oh, clarity.

We are all dying.

It wasn't okay.
It didn't improve my day.
I greatly miss our parley.

And to know on top of it all: I hurt you feelings.
It makes me appalled, makes us stalled.

Foolishness manifest.
A captain on a ship called distress.
It's crew, worldly unhappiness.

My words are cheap, I know, but my heart is deep.
Perhaps that's why I find it so hard to tell you a lie.
Or to truly say goodbye.

You should know how I am by now:
Transparent as an empty bottle of white wine.
Empty from all the intoxication I tried to find,
attempting to subdue my treacherous mind.

I'm waiting for two miracles, I pray.
But unless your rivers flow my way,
do not share in my dismay.

It feels impossible to say, yet:
perhaps it was meant to be this way.

As the sun rises, I remain
dreaming of living again.
Hoping to move beyond the pain.
Laying with a childlike hope
of escaping this slippery *****.

I dream of waking up
to a place full of grace:
Where rivers flow both ways.
And where I get to see your face:
Glowing with happiness.

Hearing your name in my head,
sends ripples through the bed.
And for a second, I'm in a nightmare:

How did I get here?
Will I turn cold or bitter?
My body continues to jitter.

Don't forget to breathe.
Stubbornly wipe those tears,
before they flood your ears.

Just endure.
And at last,

a second will have passed.

Death in the mornings.
Repeat. Repeat.
Caught in hoops: Mental loops.
Dead end road.

Death in the mornings.
Relief. Relief?
Don't seek shelter in that:
Dead end road.

Death in the mornings.
Belief. Belief.
Have patience now: Know how.
Long straight road.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

The thing I'm best at is getting lost,
by disregarding the cost
of loving relentlessly.
Reckless naivety
is me, you see.

I'm stumbling here, going there,
hoping to catch a glimpse of you.
Just in case it would cure this blue.

But you are just nowhere near.
I'm left alone here, fighting despair.
Stuck in cliche, torn by inner conflict.
Hoping for release, like a doomed convict.

And whenever I see anyone remotely similar to you,
I think: "Could it be true? Is that really you?"
But it's just wishful thinking.
And then I realize I'm sinking
deep,
deep
down.

Down where you can't be found.

Down where even a desperate heart
doesn't make a sound.

Down where I can't hear
your shimmering voice
trough all the noise
of circumstance.

Is this called sadness,
or is it madness?

To find comfort in the rain.

To seek the source of your pain,
wanting to feel the heavy strain.

To look for meaning in misery,
not being able to let it be.

And where did my dignity go?
It must have flown right out the window...