Cycles spinning,
Teeth bared in grinning,
This life was once so pure.
But everything
In crying eyes
Has made my my heart
Demure.
And once upon
A lonely time,
I believed this Truth:
That everything
Is meant to be,
But that means
So is sinning...

Little boy
So confused
Full of love
Everything
To lose.
In my head
I leaned in
For kisses that
Would not have been.
You turn away
Writing on walls
Yet, the wall,
To me it calls.
Figure it out
Figure out life,
Dying boys
Lay in the night.

I can't explain
How others think
I'm so wrapped up
In what I'm doing wrong.
That time was everything.
And he is gone.
Does that mean
Everything is gone?
Everything?
Is my whole life's purpose
Find that time again?

All these ideas in my head
Just can't seem to come out.
It's like I'm a brilliant mind
Inside of a ******* body.
I just can't seem
To find the words.
This writer's block has been going on for years.
Please help.
Anyone.

Leave my heart
       In a broken bowl,
              Catch the blood that spills.
                                                         With everything
                                         That I have thought,
                        True love gives birth,
            
                     or kills.

The air is drifting
The sunlight seeking
The breath of my eyelashes,
Beating against
You're beautiful face.
The air is winding,
The clouds are spiraling,
Towards the horizon
Spilling out on this soil.
The air is fuming,
The funnel spinning,
And here we were,
Grasping to the Palm Tree,
For dear life and love.
The air is calm.
We tried holding on,
But all that is left,
Is no one but me.
And I realize,
It is not that you were torn away.
But I was.
And I am lost.
....I am so far from home.

Hope filled my chest
Like a giant helium balloon.
Floated me around
From day to day
With a pointless smile
On my innocent face.
Hope for what was,
And what was to come.
Hope for the darkness beyond,
Hope was what I relied on.
And then I stepped out
In the dark.
And the balloon popped.
Left me broken on the floor,
My voice turned small,
High pitched anxiety,
Forever more.
Two years. Two years.
When, my friend,
Will this end?