And I suppose that it is funny,
in a macabre sort of way
how we all forget the tale of Prometheus.
He who thought to bring gods level with men,
with a simple gift.
Yet his gift was one with no equal.
He gave mankind fire, that in turn gave us life,
and with life comes love, compassion, humanity.
But what did he recieve in return?
Thanks to his act of love
for his adopted progeny,
Prometheus was chained to a rock, destined
to die once every day.
His instestines,
set to be disgested by an eagle once a day.
His pain unrivaled,
for his original sin shed
light on our existence.
And for this, we write no songs,
we hold dear no poems,
we hallow no ground.
His flames gave birth to us,
and here we are,
choking on our own arrogance and hate.
So I suppose, that
in a sense Prometheus was the first nice guy,
who finished last.
Because being the Prometheus,
means there shall be no songs sung of you,
no poems written for you,
and you will be eclipsed by others.
Your deeds will go unloved,
your accolades will go unnoticed.
The world is a mean place,
and however cruel it is,
sometimes being and doing right
gets you nowhere.

Three months have passed.
I can't say I'm still where I was back then,
but I can't say I've moved much further either.
You, on the other hand, are miles away from "us".

You've moved on, and so have I.
Then why do I still miss you when I go to bed at night?
Why do I think of you when I just wake up?
Why do I get butterflies in my stomach when we talk?
Well, not really butterflies.
Maybe moths or larvae since the feeling is no longer pleasant.

You have him. I have no one.
I have nothing but my pillow, my pen and my words.
They tangle up in psychodelic dreams and wicked poems.
None of them making sense, much like me in this world.

Illusion is broken. Hope far, far gone.
Our promises gone with the wind.
I drown in a mask I built for myself to hide from my demons.
If they don't finish me, this mask sure will.
There's no win.

So who wins in a breakup?
The one who moves on faster, or the one who does better?
Maybe the one who does both, and, dear, that's not me
because I've moved on, but *I can't forget how to love you.

The end of a beginning,
The solitude of a heart -
When the memories dwindle...
All that I knew of you,
Begins with love -
And ends with hate.

9:04pm
My circulation is poor
You consumed far too much of my veins,
leaving little space for my own blood to flow.
I saw your favorite bagels on my counter this morning,
it seemed quite strange to me because
I know you wont be around here
anytime soon.
And you don’t have to tell me twice
I’m already convinced
that you don’t know the difference,
but I saved you like the last drop of coffee at the bottom of the mug
anyway
all that remains is your smell on my pillow
and a conscience as clouded
as your steamed filled car
one friday night
and I've swallowed the sad truth that my hands may be meant
for applying the shampoo to wash your troubles away
but theres no point in trying if you're too stubborn to turn on the faucet.
once
just one time
let me flow over you
and show you the love i could give;
you’d reject it anyway,
you've never been good at loving anyone
but yourself.
but the fingers on the piano keys invited me to sing along,
not to the sad melody I stream in my mind
that reminds me of you.
and i'll never show you any of the poems I write
because then you'd know I think of you
as constantly as the clock changes time.
9:33pm