As I walk the streets of this old town
footsteps of the past are retraced;
though I look upon it with brand new eyes
every place still has your face.

The wind will always carry your voice,
words echoing on the breeze,
like whispers in the gathering dark
between the cemetery trees.

Fragmented memories of a tortured past
are just riddles without clues.
Haunted are these same old streets
by the apparitions of you.

Some call me a saint,
others call me a hellion,
but at some point revolution
must progress to rebellion.

It was flickering.
She could feel it.
She watched in awe as the light fought its way through,
Moving,
Just as she thought that it would die out,
That the fight was over,
It flickered again,
Stronger,
Brighter,
Hotter.

It seemed like an endless cycle.
A vicious, painful cycle.
She wondered why the light didn't just give up!
Why was it fighting its way through what seemed like a pointless war?!
Why didn't the light just...give up?
It would be easier, safer, painless...

Then she saw it.
The light stopped flickering.
The flame grew, brighter and brighter,
lighting up the black room,
Illuminating her once dark life.
She saw the flame dancing in glee,
knowing that it had won that dark battle.
She looked down and saw a shadow,
Her shadow.

Just like that,
She had her answers.

What price do we place on freedom
in a world of consumer slaves?
Do we measure it in the lives
of soldiers sent to their graves?

Do we measure it in the families
who lost dads, husbands, sons;
and trust the politicians
whose solution is always guns?

Do we measure it in the comfort
of never knowing first hand
the way that a child feels
growing up in a war-torn land?

What is the cost? What will it take
for us to wake and see:
if this were the path to freedom
wouldn't everyone be free?

If hate will only breed more hate
and if war only breeds more war,
it ultimately begs the question:
is "peace" worth fighting for?

Time changes all things;
seashells of the past become
the sand of today.

I tell myself that this is it,
when the day is done.
When I wake I'll start anew,
but tomorrow never comes.

Tomorrow becomes today
more quickly than the last,
more quickly than the bottles empty
more weeks and months go past.

I buy the drink, the drink buys me
another day to run.
The demons waiting patiently
for when the day is done.

Tomorrow becomes today;
I waste it like before,
I waste it getting wasted,
but I'm wasting so much more

My friends, my health, my family
and those I cherish most;
watch the boy they used to love,
becoming just a ghost.

Tomorrow becomes today,
I may have missed it all,
I may have missed the last chance
just to never miss last call

I tell myself that this is it
when the day is done,
but the circle remains unbroken
and tomorrow never comes.

Why are we all just living to die
when we all should be dying to live?

It started as a puncture,
but the seam slowly ripped;
a thimble can't protect
from a poison needle tip.

She tried to mend it
by making more holes;
the tear only grew
and grew out of control.

At the spinning wheel
her life would quickly dwindle;
frantic attempts to hem
were depleting the spindle.

What started as a puncture
of seductive sedation
fueled the abuse
of machined perforation.

"Don't mourn a living corpse"
were the last words she said
as she drew the needle
that held the last thread.

The universe watching us
The way you kissed me
The way i look at you

The feelings won't go
The more i'm trying, the more it hurt myself

I pity my self who fell in love with a guy who doesn't care about me

Oct 30th 2016