They say that a picture is worth a thousand words
So try to picture this.
A guy and a girl so perfectly matched
Their bond is just simply bliss.
While standing hand in hand
With smiles stretched so wide
You can see a connection between them
Something that is deep inside.
As they look into each others eyes
They see more than just a face
They see who they really are together
And they are in a safer place.
You can see a description of feelings
Though it’s not written on a page
It’s a description full of truth
And grows with them as they age.
This picture is quite significant
Though I don’t think you can deduce
That this picture could be your future some day
But I’ll leave that up to you.

They say after heartbreak, a haircut.
A clean slate for every mistake.
But now I've no hair left for cutting,
And even less heart left to break.

Time is a river,
Memory is a fountain.
The liquid cascade
is an unending mountain.

Her ghost was with me then
in the ever-blue expanse,
A shivering empyrean
in relentless advance.
Taunting me with a world
ripe for escapism.

Should you resist
that fateful embrace,
Even when it calls out
your very name?
I think fate's
just a game.

There are times when I miss
that wonderful hell.
What was a fountain
is now a well.

Under shadows gaze I devise the coming days.
The music surfacing heralds the daze.

The existential is mine to warp as I see fit.

Into the shivering empyrean I plunge.
White fields anew,
What's done is done.

Forget not the heart
that sings this song,
Keep close in thought;
My mind was like this
long before you came along.

Sake replaces sorrow,
Both kinds.
You take what was borrowed,
Every time.
In hallowed shadows
I wait for the morrow,
I find the shade is warmer than sorrow.

Time is a river,
Memory is a fountain.
Which is better
To be adrift in?

His eyes are revolting,
colorless and dull.
Yet there’s something that makes them
unequivocally nauseating.
When I look through these windows,
I see that lust and greed have joined hands
with revenge and apathy
to form a being capable of no earnest good.
The most horrifying trait of his eyes,
is not the color,
nor the size,
nor the dilation,
but
how ******* reflective they are.

i think sometimes,
nights spent alone listening to sad songs,
are one hundred times better,
than going out and getting drunk,
with silly adolescents,
high on life and other things.

when i told you this,
you just laughed,
and sprayed more colonge,
over your tanned wrists.

three hours later,
when you were locking lips with,
the blonde girl,
who was,
always first to like your facebook statuses,
the sad songs were on repeat in my head.

i hope in the morning you regret it.