My pen doesn't write anymore
It stumbles and trembles in my hand.
If Autumn were here, she'd understand.
It's funny how we never know
exactly how our life will go.
It's funny how a dream can fade
within the break of a day.
I'm not sure where you are now
though I see you in my dreams
and I hear everyone say
"Things are not always what they seem".
So I'm often uncertain
if you like your new home
and when I'm uncertain
I write a poem.
Time can't erase the memories
and time can't bring you home.
That time was a part of me
and now a part that's gone.

He lives his poetry
that he writes
alone in the darkness
he seeks out the light
his life is a struggle
an endless fight
he cannot back out
not when he is right
and so the journey continues
on a cold endless night.

It's time for this knife to be uncovered.
Time for fate to start to unfold.
Time for my skin to start to suffer.
Time for the letters to be written in bold.
I've spent too many years hiding this flaw.
Too many mistakes to hide.
Too much evilness I've saw.
Too many dreams have died.
But soon, something else will rise
something else will die
someone else will cry
and hide from the fact that unity is gone
society has won
and I am done.

And so the girl
Who only ever needed a friend
And a shoulder to cry on
Was left
And abandoned
Because she pushed them all
Away.

he doesn't know how
To hold me above water
Like he used to do

I often wonder
Just how easily do a pianist's fingers conform to their keys?
How do guitar strings feel to the talented in comparison to me?
Why are some more gifted as to how they handle a pencil?
And how can a few fortunate souls control their voice to create perfect sounds?
Why do some possess the wonderful abilities of feeling things better than I can?