Even the ugliest thing knows beauty.

You are one half of
Always; I am the other,
Making forever.

I don't want to be the one to lead the way,
But I still want to be the one to save the day.
I want to be a part of something bigger
I might not be a saint, but I admit I'm a sinner.
I smile like an angel, scheme like a demon,
And swear enough to embarrass a ******.
A hero doesn't want dark to shadow his light
I'll shake the world cause I'm not afraid of the night.
I was born in the dark, but I want what's right;
I've got a hero complex, and I'm not afraid to fight.

Tyger Tyger. burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye.
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat.
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp.
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears
And watered heaven with their tears:
Did he smile His work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

I feel trapped inside
My own
Existence,
Totally unable to escape it
Unless by doing the unthinkable.

I take a package of
Sticky notes to work
And steal a few precious
Heartbeats to commit my thoughts
To paper,
Forever immortalizing them.
These notes decorate my fridge,
Monuments that will long outlive me,
Reminders of those heartbeats
Where, during the pumping of my blood,
I was actually alive.

I clean up everyone
Else's messes
And thus I make my living,
But can it really be called that?
A living?

Day begins.
Breathe in.
I make the coffee, and attempt
To open my eyes.
Sometimes it works.
Sometimes it doesn't.
Off to work. To the broom
And the dustpan
And the beats of my heart
I will never get back.
Music helps, but it's not immortal.
Even the best of playlists gather dust.
My job is important, they say.
I don't believe them.
Maybe if I could just see what difference it makes,
Who my work impacts,
That there is proof that I am doing something right
Other than an empty pat on the back
And an obligatory paycheck,
Maybe then, it would be worth it.
Maybe it wouldn't **** away my soul
Like it does.
But maybes don't pay the rent,
And they certainly don't replenish my soul.

Only words make me alive.
But it is too late for that.
I was born with a gift
I'll never be able to use,
A sanity I'll never be able to reclaim.
I was born a few centuries too late.
Or maybe I was born with a soul
In a soulless world.
Where has life gone?
How can anyone live like this?
How can they exist
Rather than actually live?

Why am I here?
I can work such magic,
But there's never anyone to see.
So what does that
Leave me with?
A head and a heart full of
Words and a world that has
No place
For them.