stepping into balance
between the start
and end of things.
canceling the feelings
of forward motion,
though holding momentum
through tumbled emotion.
I can't help
(or maybe won't)
but feel lost and misled
given all away
only to find myself
at a starting place
in overgrown footsteps
that took away
my need to believe.

change from always saying no
to yourself
creative confidence
threat
and inspiration
feel the freedom to fail
and the independence
of saying yes

four hundred ninety four days.
forever became
an impossible promise.

my head felt cavernous
though now I doubt
that it's truly there
I grasp for what is happening
but my soul is bleeding out
I could forget to breathe
forget to let my heart beat
forget what language even means
before I could ever
will ever
forget
you

I can't blame a soul
for being soulless
I cannot keep control
on a broken conscience

sent back
flashing fear
furious invisibility
of all the things
who knew
that this would **** me

who knew?
I wasn't really empty,
until you suddenly took everything.
guilt is sifted in my gut
because I broke my promises
when you broke my trust
its daunting to **** blocked memories
with a calloused finger
muscle memory of a burn
to buried to pull back
they say you don't know what you have
'till it's gone
trampled security
pretenses of trust
crushed
with no sincerity to lean on

I am the faded moth,
attracted to the light you project,
or maybe in the end
I really am the butterfly
because those false pretenses of protection
keep me in the dark
Opposites attract
yet comprehension
of deeper senses
retains a spark.

I can't seem to get out of my head.
Frantic, demanding that
someone brings relief
and like the dreams
(that were safe in their painless blur)
no souls seem to see
a soul in me.

How disgusted I am
knotted
at the thought of simple needs.
Keeping me believing
but I need my sanity
for tainted perspective.
Concepts of
timelessness and gravity
and post life confessions
dragging judgment down
to endless inferno
(or was that above ground?)
I guess that is, perhaps,
what we're arguing for.

Believe in my sin
Or you'll burn in my hell.
Hypocrites can spit their biased rhymes
the sweetest sound of their own voice
pounding out adversity
with privilege so protected
by a sheltered sense of freedom
have you seen them?
sparks in their eyes
but no fire meets mine
like a reflection on black glass
asking for attention, recognition
but I was raised with suspicious superstition
born to distrust
disgust
and disappear.