One of the scariest things about life,
Is when it's all going right,
There's only one way for it to turn.

The thing about good times is,
That it makes you blind to any other reality,
Good times last forever,
And then they don't.

Time, is stolen from you,
Love, is ripped away,
People, are snatched from your existence,
And all you can do is watch.

Good times have an ominous way,
Of finding the perfect timing,
They know when they're needed the most,
And they know when to hurt you the most.

But the opposite of good times isn't bad times,
It's a void.
A lack of existence of anything or anyone,
It's a world in limbo,
Spinning at twice the speed.

Bad times are manageable,
The end of good times...is the end.

My controller seems to be broken,
The X no longer works,
As I seem to be jumping,
To someone else's tune.

The battery seems alright,
So I give it a fine wack,
I try one more time,
To take my character's life back.

He seems to be running,
Like a man on a mission,
To some unknown destination,
No arrows to guide him.

This independence is haunting,
Like a cut-scene from his life,
I wonder if he knows,
He's coded to move and sigh.

I'm aware he's going to win,
But I wonder if he knows?
His life is written in binary,
His world is made of ones and zeros.

He seems so sure and confident,
As I wonder about his dreams,
Does he want to move forever,
To someone else's beats?

And as he completes his missions,
One objective at a time,
I see a haunting similarity,
Between his world and mine.

The only difference is,
Who's really free?
The charterer of my video game,
Or is it really me?

We broke the norms,
The shackles that kept us home,
But our love was too strong,
More than what two bodies could hold.

We tried to share that ebbing love,
But instead what we shared,
Was just a purification of lust.

Dyslexic, I know the mistake to be my own,
Lust above love,
Who thought bodies could have such hold.

Bare skinned, bare souled,
Our shadows dance on a star above,
Away from earthly lust,
On a planet where there's only love.

Your heart on your sleeve,
Summer's when you took off that coat.
But winter will come,
The heart will drink that sour wine called hope.
Love will be with you, it will never let go,
It's floating out there, finding a body to call home.

Is it wrong,
To not ask why,
To listen to my moans,
And just hear me cry.

Is it wrong,
To feel alone sometimes,
To be left in the dark,
Without wanting any light.

Is it wrong,
To want to cry,
To just need a shoulder,
With no reasons why.

Is it wrong,
To occasionally hate life,
To want nothing more,
Than the solace of the quite.

Is it wrong,
To lobotomize,
The part of the brain,
That questions why.

Is it wrong,
To hate your own sight,
When the world cheers you on,
And all you can do is sigh.

Is it wrong,
To fall out of love,
Yet be so caught,
You don't know how to give up.

Is it so wrong...
To simply be right?

We are in a rush,
An eternal race towards loneliness,
We strive to fight and find ways,
To distance the world around us,
The deafening scream from the shadows,
That becomes the white noise of conversation.

We are the melancholy melody of love in hate,
We are the sirens of youth,
Inflicting metaphorical slashes all over our wrist,
In the hope that our own conscience can hear us again,
That we can find those conversations in our heads,
We had lost a long time ago,
In another life or was it to another life?
Are we real? Or a personality to fit in the perception of reality.
So why are we in a rush?

I burned that bridge,
Down the narrow road,
The one above,
The overflowing bourn.

I watched it's embers,
Grow bold and bright,
I watched it wither,
Like a cracking spine.

I burned it with malice,
I burned it with hate,
I laughed as it scorched,
And left ashes in it's wake.

I laughed at the sorrow,
Of those waiting fools,
I laughed as they had,
Nowhere else to move.

I burned that bridge,
With every sense of hate,
I burned that bridge,
Because it led me to you.

Long ago I found hope,
In a distant place called home,
People talked of wondrous things,
Like Unicorns and magic beings.

I dreamed of home long ago,
A place that I could call my own,
Where fantasies came to life,
And we lived without any deadlines.

Home was sweet, and a little sour,
It tasted like butterbear in Harry Potter,
It was always new and never got old,
It was where flavours came to explore.

Always safe, never alone,
Home was more than the people it would hold,
Always larger on the inside than out,
It was a magician's trick, without his pout.

I miss my home, I miss it's feel,
But it wasn't a building, or anything concrete,
Nor the people, who made it whole,
It feels a little funny, even saying so.

Home was always a vision to me,
A complex web of ethereal beings,
Home was made of paper dolls,
Not meant to be played with,
But just looked at from afar.

Even now for me it's cold,
Home is a memory just not mine to hold,
Perfect, delicate and out of reach to all,
Home is never mine, nor could it be yours.

All I hope is to find my neighbour,
Someone as lost with a hope to wander,
We'll play this game and pretend to be,
A family as whole as an empty nest can be.

Button eyed and cotton filled,
We'll compliment each other and forever be filled,
With the yearning thought of finding our home,
We'll live together while always being alone.

It's so easy to be lonely,
A few simple words are enough to do it,
Or a lack there of.
A few people can do it,
Or none at all.

It's so easy to be lonely,
In a crowded room,
Or an empty hall,
In a club full of people,
Or with a drink alone.

It's so easy to be lonely,
In a relationship with ignorance,
Or a single soul,
With a lover in bed,
Or an empty home.

It's so easy to be lonely,
With your soulmate besides you,
Who you may have lost,
Or with devil as your best friend,
Who'll never hear your silent calls.

I seem to be reading,
Words. Woes.

I seem to be breathing.
Inhale. Exhale.

I seem to be walking.
Left. Right.

I seem to be living.
Wake. Sleep.

I seem to be living....

I want to be living.
I'm fading.

Cold hands.
Cadavers all around.
We're zombies,
Pushing daises.

Monotony kills us all,
We try to find excitement in the mundane.

Yawn,
Is it morning already?
Did we sleep?

Wake. Eat. Drive.
Work.
We're machines pretending to think.

Alive only in words,
In love only in practice.
We're plants potted.
Pensive.

Always in pain.
Always...
Alone.

She enters the cafe,
As smooth as death.
She was a presence,
Less seen more felt.

The room went quite,
But that wasn't new.
She was the bringer of silence,
The harbinger of gloom.

She scaled in the corners,
She never wore a smile,
Yet her teeth were visible,
Shining ever so bright.

A hint of icy chill,
As people look around,
The tinge on their neck,
Instinct is on the lookout.

A coffee to go she pleads,
Pulling out exact change,
The cashier doesn't look up,
Why, he cannot say.

She slides away so quietly,
The haunted place grows bright,
Alone yet again,
This life offers no respite.

She's been alone forever,
Taking those in her path,
Her kiss is transitional,
She always leaves a mark.

She's had so many names,
She often forgets her own,
Misery, melancholy, sorrow,
Are only a few of those.

Depression is what she goes by,
Always on the move,
She's quite easy to identify,
But it's easier for people not to look.

Five.
Excitements rise,
As we say goodbye,
The world seems smaller,
Distances can't divide.

Four.
We speak our hearts,
As words seem sharp,
But conversations flow,
As thoughts never let us drift apart.

Three.
Booming voices
At both ends,
A cacophony of noises,
Trying to push thoughts in.

Two.
Silence creeps,
As words disappear,
Comfort seeks,
To agree with each other.

One.
We once were,
Now what we can never be,
We once loved,
Now we barley breath.

Zero.
Our world is naught,
We don't know one another,
We'll be a dream,
That once created a world unlike any other.

Five.
We're perfect strangers,
Like imaginary friends,
Who've outgrown each other.
Yet our silhouette exists,
As nothing more than,
A faded perfume,
On your favourite shirt,
That you'll discard soon.