I hate you, and all you are.
images of fruitless apple trees growing
in all directions cry out to the black and blue veins
hiding beneath my pale skin, hard, crumbled, but young,
a plain testament to nothing and no one with tears as red as mine.

Today i must feel my heart break yet again at the
repetitive sound of lost screaming friends, kidnapped and held
prisoner to they're own mind, while they're capture continues
to breath, love and laugh.

How do i act, why should i care, another query to lessen my empathy to them.

Another word of passion to fill a dream, tiring of the
Lost in pursuit of happiness schemes, itching at a chance to
Call for the virgins soft gleam, undoubtable fall
Upon forgotten gods crumbled skin, is nothing but
Desolate hope to endless means.

There is too much in this mind i care not to share
with the others, friends, i speak of,

Struggle for greatness but to no end, it never ends,
a lost dream, forgotten passions,

Glance at something new on the horizon,

Happy? a simple life you say? not so bad does this sound to these ears,
try hard, sweat dripping like blood from the heart, unbelievable sights,

Fluttering images of something new and without pain of suffer, a tear,
for my passion is self loathed and does not so merit the reward,

With and without choice is this strange feeling, obscure words from the silver tongue serpents called friends of this, putrid ridicule for attempts suggested, leading this to only voices in the head, calling Screaming in all directions, try hard one says, focus on the flow of your hollow music says the other,

I can not feel for they take it all and leave this with nothing, a virus of the mind, forever looping out of control in perfectly balanced chaos without meaning, without direction, hope, guidance or love.

Simply Lost.

Does it seem like we people of the same tongue, mind and transparent ever crumbling cloaks, live the life of the unwanted self loathing tragedy that never seems to end.

Those around me see a helpless aura of depression which is not there, when this arises I let my fingers talk to paper and what follows is nothing but another vague writing that no one will understand or care about. to them, to you I am nothing but a self loathing too emotional overly depressed nothing poet.

And I write,

I can feel the beats of my ceiling fan and listen to the sound of my heart second by second loosing its rhythm with no worries of this, yet no tears will fall, as much as I try, remember back, black and white images rushing like a careless head on collision of my mind and soul, how do I express this, I can not find the words nor will the emotions show themselves, I scream in my head to the heavens hoping the stars will fall and the earth burn to ashes, the hopeless hidden rage calls for my soft hands to rub gently up against my hardening mask with a quick gasp feeling only that I have drowned in the yellow tented air that surrounds me.

The forest of our ancients, now long and dead.
concrete halls of supposed brilliance standing in its stead,
a discrete time taking trick by those in power,
causing our earthly mothers life to tick out by the hour.