My sadness is mediocre
My words are bland
The thoughts I think were thought before me, I don't understand.
I don't understand why I feel the way I do
But that's supposed to be okay because neither do you..
or you,
...or you.

I'm sorry but I don't want to be like you, though.
I don't want to be a piece of the pie.
I want to be the pan that the pie shapes itself after.
I want to be a blade, a shepherd, and an imprint in time.

My hair is curly, brown, with bronze streaks.
My mood is fairly down with sullen words my world sinks.
Her hair was dark, eyes containing broken earth and lullabies.
My love was true, the only thing not mediocre and that isn't a lie.

Let's dance on a table in a diner full of orphans, and try not to be slaves
to our loneliness.
...Do you love me?
Yes.
...Oh, okay.

Sometimes I want to die so ******* badly, it's hilarious.
I can't **** myself in case she comes back. How amazing.
I can't cut myself because I don't want to scar my flesh because if I do
it may decrease my chances of getting her back.
Even my motivation is mediocre, and my tolerance so strong it could be
mistaken as pathetic.

Put me in a silver chair from across the room she'll stare. My love will go nowhere and I swear to God we are eternal. And you and I infinite, and the world is the wind behind our feet as we run into the inaudible where the world is mute and where our love is loud, in and on my lips you trace the words you did imprint and from lightning you strike the lettered indents you did or did not meant. I cannot decide.

My mouth tastes of chocolate milk, 1993, and 1996.

Insomnia stains my eyes. I can't go to sleep because I see you.

That was so mediocre.

When are you coming back?

Everything hurts.
My every syllable is a sin and I cannot confess to the kind stranger in the church because he has never had the devil wage war inside him, God has laid a path for him with roses and gold whilst I trekked through forests and marshes hacking and slashing at every demon that snarled and bared its teeth at me. I left with bleeding wounds from myself, or was it the beasts? it doesn't matter, we are one in the same now.
So you see, that nice priest in this holy house has nothing to say, with all his bread and wine, because my demons whisper louder than he screams, and God and all his angels lay silent and hidden as I succumbed to the devil's velvet tortures. I live in a hell of my own creation and no muse nor divinity can save me now.

Swaying with the wind
Caressing my frail winter bones
Sinking into the deep roots of my lungs

Deep breaths

Drinking the honey of the sun
Sweet taste of heat
The sun has finally come out to dance
To dance along the cliffs edge with me
Will you not dance?
Dance as If you were a bird
Free to kiss the sky

Let the spring ecstasy fill you
Let it drain into every empty ocean of your body
Let the flowers arise from the darkness
Let them grow in your corrupt heart

Let spring florish