Saying goodbye
To someone you love
Is like reading the final page
Of an amazing book.

As the last chapter ends
You begin to notice
Just how beautiful
And perfect
The plot always was.  

You appreciate the joy
And even the pain
As you read and thumb
Through every page.

Finally understanding
The moral of the story,
You realize you've reached
The end of this journey.

Although the last sentence  
Is the most difficult to read
Another great book awaits
Once you turn the final page.

Eventually you may stumble
Upon yet another great find.
Or maybe you'll return
To the book you left behind.

You may just discover
Once all is said and done
That this particular book  
Was your favorite story
All along.

Look in the mirror,
That face is looking back at me,
Sure that face is what others see,
But inside is it someone else at times?
I’m left feeling like a spectator in my mind,
Feeling the world as it occurs around, disconnected,
Feeling who people refer to as is someone else, not me,
Feeling like a different person every few periods,
The habit controlling my body,
The conscious wondering what this foreign place could be,
Uncomfortable in my own skin,
I am left staring through the eyes of the person I’m supposed to be,
Meeting people, shaking hands,
Reacting as they might expect from who I am,
The person staring back at me from the mirror, is that me?
Alas I debate and conclude on who the person running this body could be.

Start with a bowl of laziness
And some lack of motivation
Mix in with some carelessness
And a ton of procrastination.

Add just a pinch of dumb
And just one dash of cheap
Prepare for what may come
With a profound lack of sleep.

Keep cold for a month
And don’t forget some mean
For now your recipe is done
And will shatter all your dreams.

I will rot myself to bones,
For this desire burns like fire
this dire need
I mustn't feed
I want to look as I feel inside
someone holding on,
Soon to die

Obsession is a gun.
It points right to your head, willing to shoot.
It either glues your heart together or shatters it through.
You feel ecstatic, yet you feel blue.
It's an addiction, you were brought to.
Nobody gets it, you feel alone.

Your mind is scratched with a name that repeats itself endlessly,
It hurts to your core, it's also your ecstasy
No you can't grasp it, they're fake, they're souvenirs.
And by souvenirs, I mean they're *******,
You like it for a while, then put it on a shelf and in the end, dispose it.
It drains your time, you think it's real,
then in a month, you're done, it's sealed.
It starts confusion, you swear it's love,
you think it's happiness,
well, you are wrong.