all i can do is write,
words that tell how ugly truth can be,
or so i choose to think;

all i was asking for,
was another soul to see;
but i guess it was otherwise;

now it's clear,
it was never friendship,
but rather obligation;

pity that eats from the inside,
a guilt that never tires;
a guilt that you don't deserve;

it's hopeless praying to the stars:
they might shine even if they're dead,
how would it reach the heavens?

is it my selfish cause,
to ask for one broken to stay,
even if it cries to leave?

is it my cowardice,
to think that there's no way;
but the easy way out?

maybe the angels are deaf,
or better yet, blind;
unless the light shines, it's nonexistent;

how i wish the ground would swallow me,
but i'm guessing,
even the ground would gag on my choices.

Come, little light,
Shine your brightest.
Come, little light,
Go and do your best.

Yonder, little light;
The future you aim to reach,
The vibrance of your days,
The radiance that you preach.

Yet you fret, little light,
For the darkness that covers thee,
Yet you see, little light,
How the darkness swallows me;

You hurt, little light,
You flicker and whimper
Until you shine;
Shine dead.

Be brave, little light,
Shine in the midst of oblivion;
Yet be one wise,
Don't venture the darkness alone;

The light of many,
Illuminates south pole north;
Yet never drown,
In the light of the crowd.

Come, little light,
Never be afraid;
Flicker, but not burn out,
In the strife that reality brings about.

You look into my eyes
and I allow;
Although I know through it
you look at yours;
I'm nothing but an object:
Something to get what you want.
Never the one desired.
At a loss for words,
Beaten up by distractions.
I'm tired but I can't yield;
The world never cared
for unannounced rejects
like me.
The only way I can escape
is to die.
And I can't change my mind.
I'm sorry.

I've always been lost:
In my thoughts, in actions;
So it seems, a wanderer I've been.

I've strayed no matter what be the cost,
No matter what I face, endless prosecutions;
More than meets the eye, I've seen.

A conflagration in frost,
Nothing more than a raging vexation,
Of the extreme, nowhere in between;

The words I've used, I've disgraced,
Of no form, of no beauty,
Such of that my carelessness;

Such of the wrist vandalised, razed;
As for the love turned pity;
Such for resolves, spineless;

As of the words, played,
As the truth grow vague yet dainty;
This is to the reality I digress.

The irony of the doubt
Of the one that came out of my mouth

Is that this head won't make flowers out of words
Or gardens out of stanzas;

That when these hands write or type
None would be so quite the hype,

That words would be just words:
They are, yes, but the irony is that it still hurts;

When I said I can't make more out of a word,
My head sabotaged me, albeit absurd:

I made flowers out of words
But, out of nowhere, it'd hurt me:

For the thorns of the rose I plucked,
From the garden I thrashed, crocked,

To the truth that the one I plucked the rose for
Would do none but to abhor;

Now I cry, knowing,
What the irony of the doubt would sing;

How I'm bound to fool myself with words,
And hurt by them, soon after;

How this heart would endlessly flutter
Over love that is destined to falter.