Weeping tears I haven't earned,
Saying prayers I don't deserve,
Breathing music I must preserve
On pages of poems I haven't burned.

Sleeping away these transient treasures,
This well of ink which is my heart.
Using the dregs of my soul to start
Composing symphonies to passing pleasures.

Every uttered thought is a secret shared,
Emotion sustains each syllable said,
Shared on paper so they can be read,
These words in which my soul is bared.

Live through the poetry and the prose,
Don't look back onto the sorrow,
Endure, survive, outlast tomorrow.
Curb this music before it flows

Over the line and out of control.
Once you read, it's yours to own;
You're in charge of what you're shown.
The poet himself cannot read them all.

These songs will blackmail me, in time.
Something tender to remember the pain,
I can't regret what I forget remains;
Where do dreamers go to die?