Sadness is here to greet me again ~
Melancholy eyes wet with tears ~
I struggle to march through each day ~
The night comes like a blow to the chest ~
Relentless ~
Unfeeling ~
Reminders that I left ~
And now I see you holding her hand ~
And I have no one to blame but myself ~
For all these years of melancholy eyes ~

Copyright Tia Jane Fajardo

i wasn't ready for you
and i knew you weren't ready for me.
i was scared to show you the mess between my ribs and the hurricane inside my head. i was afraid you'd cower and run.
but they say time, time is the true narcotic for pain
and they were right.
because now i am more than willing to cut my heart open knowing it would only bleed your name
i am willing to tear every layer of my skin to show you what i'm made of.
everything that makes me, me.
my scars, my fears, my hopes and my dreams
my "night pieces" ; the pieces i only share with the moon.
i will show them all.
because i want you to know that i am not perfect
(i am tired of trying to be)
i am a storm beneath flesh and bones
i am made up of tiny cracks and holes that could never be filled
and they are what makes me whole.
i will be your biggest tidal wave.
but darling, if you accept me for everything that i am
and everything that i'm not,
i promise to love you like you've never been loved before.

I woke up feeling morning pain
Another barroom brawl
I didn't make my bed last night
I slept out in the hall

I made it to the correct floor
I just couldn't find my keys
I can't keep living life like this
Can someone help me please?

I'm sick of empty promises
Every bottle seems to be
An enigma in a riddle
And they all keep calling me
I'm sick of empty promises
And of bottles holding dreams
My life's an Escher painting,
So, it seems

Different bars, the same result
I always wake up ******
Sunday Morning Sunshine hurts
and I'm always here alone

I am tired of the drinking
Of the searching, of the fight
But, I end up every morning
Still feeling like last night

I'm sick of empty promises
Every bottle seems to be
An enigma in a riddle
And they all keep calling me
I'm sick of empty promises
And of bottles holding dreams
My life's an Escher painting,
So, it seems

I wake up in dark back alleys
And if I make it home at all
I end up in the stairway
Sleeping, curled up in a ball

I'm not looking for redemption
Just a way to stop the sounds
Of the bottled empty promises
Before I'm in the ground

I'm sick of empty promises
Every bottle seems to be
An enigma in a riddle
And they all keep calling me
I'm sick of empty promises
And of bottles holding dreams
My life's an Escher painting,
So, it seems