The best kinds of inspiration comes when I'm 8 again
and I've hidden myself beneath a table clutching my teddy bear at midnight while
the lightning and rain told stories about the wars and pain that they've seen.

I grew to be 13 and I'd often cry
wondering why Daddy never came to say goodnight to me.
My pillows stained from years of tears.

When I was 16 I cried because the boy I thought I loved
didn't want to speak to me anymore and I never knew why.
All I could remember was that he smelled nice
and holding his hand felt as natural as the evening breeze.

The years weren't kind
and less could be said for the people I've met.
Many things terrified me
but the lightning and rain had always been constant company
especially during the sleepless nights.

I'm a little bit older now,
A little more broken and a little more worn
My mind is in tatters and my feet are covered in mud
My hands shiver but not from cold
And sometimes they say my eyes are flat and dead

The best kinds of inspiration come from tears now;
Some self-caused, others... just others.
The best kinds of inspiration live six feet under;
unmoving yet living somehow
The best kinds of inspiration make no sense;
A jumbled mess of screams and whispers
The best kinds of inspiration are alive;
Moving about heartlessly, more often than not, ignoring beauty

My only inspiration is locked away somewhere...
I dare not even think it to be real anymore
My only inspiration is in the winds at the apex of the night
My only inspiration rains sunlight when chills come to bite
My only inspiration...
It lives.
Somehow, someway
It lives.