Dark - Dark - Dark -
Lost within the dark;
Riding on a steed of the darkest velvet -
Of the darkest emotion.

Deep - Deep - Deep -
Swirling into the deep oblivion;
Twisting deeper down under -
Deep down to the lowest level of cyanide.

Fly - Fly - Fly -
Fly away to a season of bliss;
Flutter into the wind of uncertainty -
Tear the pages of fate and destiny then flush, flutter, fly.

Away - Away - Away -
Far away to a majestic paradise of warranty;
Away to a night of desolation -
Never to wander any farther than away.

Writing - Writing - Writing -
Scribbling a melody of peace and warfare;
Sending a written requiem -
Hoping the perished write back.

Trust - Trust - Trust -
Sleep inside a swollen state of trustworthiness;
Don’t trust a nymph who lies beneath their lips -
Don’t trust your self-conciseness.

Fly Away from the Deep, Dark, Trust of Writing.
Dark - Deep - Fly - Away - Write - Trust:
Live.

Light moves and night steals.
In the night,
Time stands still;
It wobbles and caresses a broken seal.

The moon falls and gives a goal -
To live your life is your only trial.
In the night, time is a companion:
It whistles and sends a knoll.

The darkness is a lonely cavern -
It swirls in spirals intriguing a lonely wayward orphan.
It pummels the ground.
In the night, it engulfs the land in an endless tavern.

In the night, you are trapped.
Your dream is your alibi;
There is no escape unless you find yourself in the light -
Unless the light is tapped.

Sail a ship;
In the night, there are crinkles in the waves -
They **** and sink,
They wear their blade on their hip.

There are hallows;
There are taunts and burdens to carry;
In the night, there are monsters -
There are shallows.

Even though the darkness is tight,
And the fear is illuminated -
The world is at peace;
In the night.

Living in a corner,
Desolate –
Alone.
Surrounding – surrounding.
Suffocating and bleeding on the outside,
There he sits,
On pristine white sheets,
And a dying dream in his head.

Outside the bullets ring beneath his finger,
The gunpowder traces patterns of silk.
It coats his clothes as morning musk.

Inside, a choir sings, happy - joyful;
Hymns of harmony.
Inside he never did;
He never did check in;
Into those big white walls.

Clad in the sky and it's ***** of fluff,
He can't let go,
He can't accept,
He can't define the horrors;
The madness.
Behind his own demons,
Behind his own burdens -
What he could never do.

What happened on the outside?
What happened beyond the sea or white?
The restriction of the big white walls?

Inside, everything was fine.
Everything was crisp;
Everything was clean.
Family laughed at pure jokes.
Children sauntered up knolls full of overgenerous seas of color.
Life was like a fairy tale.
He had a life worth living for.
A life where there were no twists nor turns.
There were no shouts of agony;
There were no firing rings.
He had a sister who still admired him -
Who still stood by his side.
One that he felt he needed to protect.

On the outside,  he knew he ruined it.
He knew he took away her last and only breath.
He says he's sorry -
He prays to be forgiven.
On the outside, he is rarely there:
He is rarely sane.

Daring death,
He will sit.

Outside he will be poked.
Outside he will be prodded.
Outside he sees the clipboards.
Outside he is tested:
Outside he had a diagnosis.

Mental -
Unstable -
Crazy -
Freak.
The words circle his brain.
A hawk stalking its prey.

On the outside;
He thinks to himself, 'this isn't real.'
He tells himself, 'this isn't real.'
His family is still taking their breaths.
The gun never vibrated between his fingers.
He tells himself he's dreaming.

He will always be on the inside.
Even as the years grow old,
And the planets crumble under a fallen touch.
Even if in reality, it isn't real,
He thinks, 'it is.'

On the outside is the truth.
On the outside is the regret.
On the outside id the remorse.

On the inside is the peace.
On the inside is the tranquility.
On the inside is the life.

Living in a corner,
Desolate –
Alone.
Surrounding – surrounding.
Suffocating and bleeding on the outside,
There he sits,
On pristine white sheets,
And a dying dream in his head;

For the outside is an asylum,
and the inside a false paradox.