Remembering it all is a burden in itself.
Or so it has turned to be.
To forget would only now be a luxury.
As time fades on,
as do I.
Fading,
morphing,
changing.
All actions in themselves- yes-
But those of a rather passive intent.
If only as I pretend to forget,
May I actually.

Dreams will continue to evade me.
Empty from riding on false emotions.
Adorning themselves upon the ideal of eventual joy,
sometime I wish life were as simple as to forget what ought to be forgotten.
But then I recall how dead the lives of the forgetful are.
They decay in an endless cycle of their own unknowing.
There will never be a point of true contentedness.
Always.

The hanging notion of dread will haunt us all.
Never will there be complete satisfaction.
Life in itself is a drought of empty dreams.
There is only hope if you can remember.
Hope eats at those who cannot forget, until
it is all gone. Everything.
Hopeless promises.
Misbegotten idiots,
and all I hear screaming is,
“What did you say again?”

I wish not to see-
what a dream that would be.
A triumphant loss for reality.
I spend each and every day,
passing a milestone of decay,
and endorsing the addiction surrounding me.
Its passing through my mind
has proved to show no shrine,
or leave a lasting effect upon me.
I sit and I wait
For death to equate
All the memories of that person
who used to surround me.

To live so much inside
this unmanageable threat
follows me always
so much to hide, but
so much to share, so much to give,
but none will ever see.
Even when it may come out-
it is just to be ignored.
This burden sits forever in me,
with silent perseverance,
but why is it needed?
I am the secrets.
I am the hidden darkness,
I am loss.
Within my own.
There is so much held within.
It concaves over in lucrative paste
upon the equilibrium of time.
They pile up,
time grows on,
As do I, for now.

I sat out here on this bench you see.
The day you decided to call.
Sure, I thought-
I’ll give her sweet misery, and let the phone ring on.
Then I thought, oh wait a second-
I need not hope, but love.
Then I called you up-
sweat down my neck,
tracing down my broken body,
until into a pool of dread it falls,

Sweet cigarette
lit between my lips-
death tightly bound within its seductive folds.
This addictive paper,
shadowing the tangerine sky,
taking on my misery
as some random guy walks by.
I sit up straight,
with debate,
and imagine your dead eyes.
on I look into the sky,
and wish this was not mine.

There is a lot I should have felt the need to say,
and a lot I should have felt the need to do.
But now I just plummet here alone,
just thinking of what used to be you.

I’ve never come to feel what
I have been so long risen away from.
I’m too stressed to be dead,
which lets me be too stressed to know an end.
to feel the lonesome flat-line of a world so desolate from
what I need,
and everything I know.
All I long for is to see one
from before.
From when I was me, and they were them.
Two different people sitting ***** in different vats
holding empty glances, grasping at the hope of a future that would never be.
Empty promises of my own binding.
Never said, but felt.

There is no one in the world but I.

I have a lot to feel,
but I never know where to put it-
that feeling of desire
longing
for something else,
while remaining only to yourself.

I have a lot of emotions,
but I never know where to put them.
I leave them where I can
in those who feel not
nor see anything.
In those or that which groupe coldly inviting
as if sharing the memory of a forgotten burden.
Placed in nowhere but in an empty knot,
in a forgettable tree.
Blankly peering into the world
with glossed over eyes.