'Tis not life, but living
That proves we are alive.

The words burned into memory
their weight I carry still
your happiness turned to anguish
your shimmer seemed to fade
the person that once stood there
saying "only you control your fate"
no longer stood before me
I knew not, who you were
instead you were a dark man
with lifeless heavy eyes
saying "I used to get high on life,
now I just get high"

I know enough to know
I'll never know enough
But, knowing this
I should know, enough
is enough

You know,
       One time i thought i could write.
Not necessarily right wrongs, but just write.
Now if i could right wrongs then i would just go ahead and write something about that, because it would be the right thing to do... Right?
But, no, no, no i don't usually write about things like that, not right now anyways.
Right now i write about many other things and i think i can keep right on writing about them until i have nothing else to write about.
At which point I'll go right back to attempting to write about righting wrongs.
And I'll keep writing on and on about righting wrongs.
I'll just write, write, write, write, write, until... there's absolutely nothing left to write about concerning the topic of righting wrongs, but since righting wrongs is such a vast topic i believe i will have plenty to write about.
Which leads me right back to my main point. I think i can write, but am i even writing right?

Back then when we were friends
I didn't worry about the ending
But then again,
It was foolish, to live life, without concern
So I came to learn

In the end, I was in awe
I wonder did it take much thought
I became the Ceasar to hold your daggers
Et tu (even you) must understand the treachery in your act
Bleeding out, I could not react

Now I still breath, but bare these scars
An awful memento of a mournful past
I press on, but never the same
Anger and hate my only friends
That's how this ends

a circle:
the difference between what it contains
and what it is contained by;
an empty form;
an opening;
without beginning, without end;
found in solitude perfect;
a thing that is a soul.