The frost still hasn’t gone,
Binding one down,
A frozen tundra that constantly surrounds
These joints and these aches
Floating like smoke over piano keys,
The song plays no more.
It’s stagnant and dry.
They say summer is nigh,
But life is not of a cycle.
Born in Spring, we never see Spring again.
Only the natural concede,
The rest cease to breathe.
For many death brings new life,
For conscious thinking,
Life brings new death,
Over and over.
What to do but wait?
We can’t leave a mark as it is.
And those that do leave scars.
Healed overnight,
And ignored as reminders,
Instead as glory.
Competing for injustice,
Whose is the worst of all.

Everyone is moving forward.
I'm being left behind.
In here. In my head.
I haven't accomplished ****.
I feel like I make decisions because it looks like the right thing to do.
It is what everyone else does.
I do what everyone wants because I literally don't know how to do what I want.

What I want always ****** things up.
How I lived was always wrong.
I don't even know how to make decisions.
Do I even want to?
I just stay status quo.
I'm boring and wandering around empty and dead.
I'm a shell.
There isn't anything worth anything inside.
If there was, I'd have let it out already.
I have nothing to offer myself.
I appease everyone else.

We all spend time hurting ourselves.
We just differ on how we let it show.
It's unfair that physical pain equals emotional.
But, it also feels the best.
Life is one big analysis of reflecting on why it's not so bad.
In order to not give up on all we have, Maybe letting go is the only way.
Maybe caring for oneself is the way to sway
everyone's opinions.
Which are **** anyway.

We are at the mercy of the city, they said.
Trapped and bound, it wasn’t pretty.
We are the kids who have accomplished nothing.
The kids who lived too fast.
The kids who didn’t live at all.
Wanting to be something, facing the fall.

Laughing in the face of darkness.
Pretending to do our jobs while they drop pennies.
Here and there, bounding everywhere.
Facing the end of the map,
Opportunities landing everywhere but our laps.

Then the lights come on, at the game’s end.
The charade is over, no time left to pretend.
Pretend to be grown, happy, and alone.
Together in this land of the infinite unknown.
Cliche’d and replayed and lost in the many quotas.
Not enough going on anymore to really take note of.

My thoughts are always wrong.
Rehearsing things to say so long
that I'll never respond.
Too hard to take my time.
Too quick to jump this gun.
Fixating on all the most inappropriate fascinations.
Holding tongues on all the worst occasions.

Let's play a good old fashioned game of Russian Roulette.
Rushing to do all the things we'll regret.
And forgetting all those words we pretend to believe.
I'll always have one more deception up my sleeve.

That might just be the old me.

You are a treat for the senses.
Beautiful as the reflection of the sun on a glistening lake.
Soft as the petals you pressed in your journals.
Sweet as the honey on your fingertips - taste and smell.
Gentle as the whisper of the breeze on a frosty winter morning, biting at you as it passes you by.
Still as the time that doesn't move when you're breathing.
Deep as the casket in your heart.
Dark as your time alone at the start of your last day on Earth - captured in the photos you took of yourself.
To round back to your everlasting beauty.

Forcing these thoughts like clay through a spout.

Flagrant doubt as to the success of your recent suffering.

It isn't like it used to be. Nothing is like it used to be.

Lost inspiration in happiness - dragging out words like animal carcass.

No immortal flow - no ingenious drawl - blathering rants disguised in colorful diction.

Dissatisfaction in all nonfiction - creativity only thriving on dysfunction.

Functionality is ruining your beauty.

You were better when you were useless.