I crave a voice other than mine -
It consumes me in pleasant conversation ,
But then slowly moves into darker realms

Dispelled by a shake of the head.

I crave a voice other than mine -
Mine is not a voice I am capable of following blindly,
Or trusting with the whole of my heart

As it seeks to destroy the very thing I hold dear.

As it seeks to exploit my single, greatest fear.

As it seeks to drown myself in my own silent shouts and the grabbing of my hair.

I crave a voice other than mine -

But they are all asleep.

Trust is a mirror
That I ask you to hold
With a steady hand
Lest you drop it.

There are a few who
I trust to show my face
To whom it matters
Such as myself.

Trust is a mirror
That I myself have held
With a steady hand
Before it dropped.

It sits in my stomach / Resting, waiting.
Unsolved, / But not unwarranted.
A problem.

It stirs / it bristles as it sits up and stretches.
Yawning / pandiculating.
It's awake.
\
It begins to gnaw.
Eating you alive from the inside.
Encompassing the whole of your mind.
Focus.
Focus.
Focus.
You can't.
You run.
You can't.
You hide.
You can't.
You breath.
You can't.
You can't.
You can't.
It is there.
It lives on.
It cannot die.
It thrives.
It grins.
You collapse.
It wins.

At times I burn orange,
Hints of yellow, red -
A hearth fire,
Warm,
Protective,
Fed.

At times I burn a green,
Hints of purple, red -
A cursed fire,
Cold,
Negligent,
Dead.

There are songs about love
And songs about it's loss.
A wise man once said
“Music is there for when words fail us.”
When our emotions clash and rage and burn
Or simply flutter about
In Beautiful Chaos.

But what to do with doubt?
There are no songs about lacking.
Stepping each step, knowing that irrationality
Hides in every corner.
You are worried for yourself.
You ask yourself "Will I?"
You ask yourself "Why Not?"
You ask yourself all,
But answer none.

Our minds are funny that way.
We can have full knowledge that we worry
About things that are pointless.
Things so unlikely that the morbid hilarity of our consideration
Of the possibilities of such things
Should be enough to stop us from believing them.

There are songs about love,
And songs about it's loss.
A wise man once said
“Music is there for when words fail us.”
But I lack burning emotions.
And thus I lack music.
And naught but words remain.

There are songs about love,
And songs about it's loss.
But there are no songs of
The worry of
Never finding it.

Bus lines, known and missed.
Streetlights, gleaming, brisk.
Cars showing signs of movement,
And never stopping.
Their lights unblinking as they move straight,
Across the highway, the crisscrossing pathway
That when looked at within these moments,
These moments of semiperfect feelings and emotions.
The streets and cars and lights and buses all feel
Right.
They engulf me.
Their metaphorical resonance echoes across the chambers of my chest.
They move into the once perceived place where all emotions call home.
The thoughts settle. I allow the words to flow out from inside of me and into my my thumbs as they pound away, silently, on my keyboard.
My heart is a city.
It pulses.
It beats.
I am alive.
I am Bright. Tall. Proud.
Content.
Me.

On a convoy, coming home -
My place that emanates love.
Tired, weary, beaten, torn -
But my spirits soar above.
A sigh of relief escapes -
My mouth turns upwards, doting.
Stepping through the doorway warm -
I know I'm not just coping.