I always get this urge to write about pretty and beautiful things
But when I go to write I have nothing to say
I think of the moon and light from the sun
Or sometimes the stars and the constellations
The problem is that I am unaware of my intentions
Then the flow that I follow comes from unattended emotions
Leading to past and unhealed wounds
That I didn't even know still felt heavy and bruised
I am almost dying in places inside of myself
I am recovering memories from straight out of hell
I have named my own demons and chained them to my ribs
I keep them locked in blood sockets and force them to live
Burning in a nightmare I created myself
Its no wonder the moon is no source of help
I have decieved my own eyes, my own heart, my own soul
I have been made a slave to this feeling,
.........