“We want to feel free,” cried the congregation.
“And what is your prison?” came the response.

“Your prison is the walls you build.
The bricks, you lay with disbelief;
The constraints, you place upon yourself,
When you listen to those who tell you what you cannot do.
You want to feel free, you say?
First, you must free yourself from the shackles of impossibility.
If you can do this -
If you can begin to believe in your own potential again -
Then you can feel free.”

“We want to feel alive,” was the plea.
“And where is your coffin?” he replied.

“Your coffin is buried deep inside yourself.
The nails, you hammer with self-regard;
The dirt, you shovel with pride,
When you worry about what others will think.
You want to feel alive, you say?
First, you must awaken yourself to the insignificance of opinion.
If you can do this -
If you can act without worrying for your reputation -
Then you can feel alive.”

“We want to feel happy,” the masses begged.
“And where is your sorrow?” was the swift retort.

“Your sorrow is tethered to your past.
The pain, you cause with obsession;
The grief, you plant with scrutiny,
When you replay your unpleasant memories over and again.
You want to feel happy, you say?
First, you must cease to torment yourself with what has been done.
If you can do this -
If you can live in the present and appreciate the here-and-now -
Then you can feel happy.”

“We want to feel loved,” echoed their entreaty.
“And who is your loneliness?” the instant query.

“Your loneliness is none other than yourself.
The solitude, you cast with fear;
The exile, you order with your cowardice,
When you shy away from getting close for dread of being hurt.
You want to feel loved, you say?
First, you must make yourself vulnerable.
If you can do this -
If you can throw yourself on the mercy of another’s heart -
Then you can feel loved.”

À chaque année
J’vais suspendre mes espoirs et mes voeux
Sous forme de boules colorées et de flocons plastifiés
Sur une succession de branches fossilisées

Des espoirs qu’un jour j’vais t’revoir
Des voeux de santé et de prospérité
J’suis un peu égoïste donc j’vais accrocher
Beaucoup moins de voeux que d’espoirs

J’vais envelopper mon coeur et ma tête
Dans des rubans festifs et du papier crêpé
Tu pourras choisir entre mon coeur insensible
Ou ma tête confuse et inintelligible

Des sociétés de flocons blanc
Tombent du ciel et j’sais pas
Tomber m’a pas l’air si pire
Quand tu resplendis en atterrissant

If it makes you sick then dont drink it
Not if it makes you sick
and you seem to only write sad stories
if it makes you sad dont think it
no dont you think

But it feels so very good
When it warms its way down your throat
It almost seems to melt
All the ice inside your soul
And it feels like such a huge release
When that knife hits your skin
You almost cant see passed the tears
Cant see passed the sin

But its okay
Because it feels so very good when you dont feel a thing
And the alcohol is just numbing that sting
And it feels so very good when you dont know what to do
When you put a song on
But forget the tune

Oh, if it makes you bleed dont do it
Please dont you dare
If it makes you scream dont sing it
Dont you ******* care?
Do you really think those scars will heal?
On that faint delicate skin?
Is this how you tell your real?
Yeah, the blood doesnt match the grin

No those scars dont match your alcoholic grin.

Hands and fates intertwine as lovers kiss.
Fireworks crackle through the air, and love permeates the atmosphere.
But a mere kiss on the lips of another pales in comparison to the intensity and the familiarity of the love of the sea and the land.
No matter how many times the waves of the ocean must recede into the depths, they will always return to steal just one more kiss from the sand's ever awaiting lips.
The wave reaches out with it's foamy breakers to show the land that it is never out of reach.
And when it must once more retreat, it leaves a darkened mark upon the sand, just to keep the sweet memories alive.
This is one dance, that will always continue, until the very end of days.

Can you hear it?
The laughter of the wind?
Can you see it?
The dancing of the wind?
Can you feel it?
The happiness of the wind?
Can you feel it, can't you?
But why can't I?
Why? Why?
Feeling hopeless towards the world
How could this happen to me?
Seems like everything has gone away
Leaving me alone and cold in the dark
Can anybody hear me?
Why?
Why is this happening to me?

8/2/2012 16:37

For winter I wear black.
not one spark of colour
shall break my mourning for this
season of death.
It speaks of the way I feel inside;
the chill stab of sorrow, the darkness of hurt long concealed.

There will be no yellow
until daffodils appear;
no blue until the bluebells,
no pink until the cherry blossoms
scatter their petals
over the long-thawed land
to make way for the coming of the goddess of spring.

Black is the opposite of white,
of the flat white snow;
black's like a sheltered cave.
Let me hibernate in shadow
draw the curtains
close my eyes.
Wake me only when springtime finally arrives.

A hug is what Im sending you
I'm holding you close so don't you move
It's warm and tender and loving too
This hug has been built in mind for you

I
Icy fingers wrap around
my legs and arms.  They
sink their daggerlike nails
into my skin, and force
me to go to places
that I shouldn't be

Thick polluted smoke
enters my lungs, and
fills them with the
darkest tar.  I cough
and spew out words
that I shouldn't say

Slimy tendrils slither
into my ears and wrap
around my brain.  They
snake into the crevices
of the gray matter, and
force disturbing thoughts
to the surface of my mind

It's the Devil, my dear
who spits out poisonous
barbs that make you cry,
Not me.

It's the Devil, my love
who stares at you with
those cold red eyes,
Not me.

It's the Devil, mon cherie
who whispers sweet nothings
that always turn to cold lies,
Not me.

Don't you know I love you, babe?


II**

Please forgive my insincerities
It's not me at all, you see
There's a devil controlling the things that I do
and wouldn't you know it, he's not fond of you

He made me take a gander of the lass with the cans
It was all him when I forgot our dinner plans
Don't blame me when I stumbled in drunk
He likes tequila, who would've thunk?

When our ******* session was somewhat abrupt?
He was the reason I was forced to erupt
When foreplay became no play, who else can I blame?
He's bad at back rubs, and we'll toss just the same

He's crass and uncaring and remarkably rude
He's insensitive, boorish and  unimaginably lewd
He's not me, my dear, of that much I'm sure
I'm wonderful, loving, tactful, and pure

So the next time you're thinking of starting a row
for something I've done, or something I've blown
Take a deep breath and look into my eyes
and maybe catch a glimpse of the devil inside