When you reach within
Do you find yourself
Descending an everlasting abyss
Or remiss to find your fingertips
Ascend past the glass ceiling
of Heaven

I find it kind of ironic
How the snow always falls
While ashes from charcoal rise

When you play with thoughts
That flood your brain
Do they elate your senses
Or bring you pain
Do you show on the surface
What's imprinted in your skin
Or leave the premise to be unwrapped
Then tossed aside once again

I began to write
So that I could know myself
And what I find
Is that I'd rather be someone else

Dead Inside

That's a flag that no soul runs to capture
It leaves you high and dry
Stranded alone
Staring down from the rafters
Wondering what went wrong
And then proceeded after
Which carries on into the very present Existential disaster

What is it that besets me
Perplexes my soul
To forever second guessing
Presetting the ridicule
And never ending questioning
With sharpened tips directed within

For my eternal conflict festering
My eager disposition
Reveals my meager position
Desperately inflicting
Conditioned precision
Leading ultimately to division

All while I'm asking why

Was this what I envisioned?
Did the pieces fit together
Like a perfect prism
Projecting nimbus clouds
Or simply bring the rain down
In my prison?

I get the suspicion
That there was no omission
While considering these propositions:

Maybe if I could be different
Then I could be divident
Blistered from the sun and innocent

Am I justified or satisfied
In all that I desire
When admitting each want
That's past transpired?

For the joys of life
Don't require far places to be found
Foreign grounds
Only offer exotic ways to suffer

But there's no coming home
When I'm pushing through alone
No one to love me while I'm alive
No spark of the falling snow
Meeting the burning charcoal
No ember
And nothing to remember
When I'm already dead inside