2 am is for the poets who
can't sleep because their
minds are alive with words
for someone who's not there.

For the alcoholics drinking
themselves into amnesia to
forget someone who left.

2 am is not for the lovers
asleep in each other's arms.

It is for the lonely, the ones
who are inlove with the
loved but are not loved in
return.

a wish or command
I've got a war to fight
thoughts bore me
death fills my mind
that disgusting place
I can't turn back
chasing a shadow in the dark
gloomy violin in a well
zombies, how you hypnotized
wounded hearts, next stop
words doesn't mean anything
anymore

Don't let others get
your spirit down.
There will always be people
that love to read and share
their moments of inspiration.
Being creative in words
you feel.
Make you feel better
like a spinning wheel.
Inspire yourself
to inspire others.
Together we can do
so much more.
Don't let it go to waste
by shutting the door.

I stitched each of them on to me, knitted
It tight on my flesh. I bleed for a moment
But it was just another etched on my flesh.

Each perforation was another that joined my flesh,
Entwined on my soul I made their hair in to fine
Cotton and each was given a place upon my being.

"Eye,
      "Neddle,
                    "Backstitch­,
                                     "Scissor,
                                                   "Seam,

A honour of their offering was felt as I seeped on
Their twine. Pain was a lust that was sort but
Never harvested and my culling was full.

Flesh was just moment of time aging ever moment
Decaying since birth. Their hair lived longer than
What was but food for thought now no more.

My limbs like a puppet on stings, but I am their keeper
Of life on me, in me they live on. I stich their memory
So many colours do  I weave on to myself.

Blonde,
             Brown,
                         Chestnut,
                                     Ginger

But the ones that are lucky that never grace my being,
They are those of least crowns on their scalp.
I am one of such no hair on myself. But weaves I
Sculpt upon myself, they live on even though bodies rest.


I have many stitches on my flesh of weavings not my own,
But their essence will always be here as long as I live on.
Seeing those moments which will be etched on myself,
I will weave all into the picture etched on my skin.

*"A stitch in time ebbs your existence your soul to mine,

We
    are
          all
              of
                time but we exsist in
One
      moment
                     that
                            means
More than grains that fall into oblivion.

I was on the everglade of pain where the
Grass did release the winds fever upon all
That fell unto the field of draughts sickness.

They bled their moments on each stem,
Thriving on the ecstasy of what descended
On ever inch of immaculate feverish hunger.

Each whipped on every nerve that bleed, and
Covered each morsel of life's disturbance.
All their wishes for a life saved on whim.

But flesh is for the tournament of every
Sin, and with every one that bleeds, another
Moment that fed him that dwells far below.

But in the field of those that sway in perpetual
Agony they release penance on those that grace
The calm exterior till they bleed and fall below.