one error of continuity, the death of passion;
take it from father time
enraptured in this ill fitting body
i'll watch you fizzle in a week.
Find Comfort In No One.

define me as the wasted youth
the ungrateful living
dare i be a poet during the days of Wordsworth?
or shall i rot like the predecessors?
every day is a continuum
of me wanting you back
wishing away my youth and dreaming
of emptiness

its so so easy
to close my eyes at night
and i am back in that hospital rooms
my un-slit wrists begging for release
and all i can think
is how you should have let me die

the last words she said to me
or rather, typed;
"no one will ever love you
in the same way i have."
and the reason i turn back to you
every other month or so
is because you make me,
along with the other sixty beaus,
feel the slightest bit loved

its been nearly a year
and it's finally time
but i can't help feeling
that i'm betraying you

a girl who should not have seen
the turn of her 16th birthday
is facing the consequences
of actions chosen for her
and now she waits 6 days
maybe less maybe more

by the turn of the clock
i have not done as i said
my head and i have frailed
lonely and failed becomes