They raised me to be who I am,
And I could never have been any different.
They spent countless hours nurturing me and cherishing
Every achievement throughout my life.
I loved them so much, and I'd have done anything for them,
Will still do anything for them, because I knew they loved me back.
Until they pushed me away from them,
Sent me falling through the sky and got the hell away from me
As though I was nothing to them anymore,
Never had been their little boy.

And I fall through clouds like they don't want to be near me,
And I fall until the details below me come into focus.
I cry when I see the city, the buildings, the people.
I cry because I know now why I was created.
They come closer to me as I move closer to them,
And I can feel my insides start to churn,
And then it burns before I've even reached the ground.
I'm blinded by the brightness of my own incineration,
And with my last thoughts I beg everyone below me,
Though they can't hear me under the roar of death,
"Please don't look at the light."

First the sky
lets loose a cloud,
suddenly I'm drowning
in the emptiness of shadows,
the silence of alone.
Vacant now
but revisited often,
the space within
once occupied by you.
The love we shared,
a beautiful mess
of memories
I can't forget.
A grievance of time,
I waste days and nights on you,
pen of black ink running,
writing poety
to express how much
you meant to me.
Truly
words fall short,
a fraction of these feelings
of love,
fragments of heart
devoid of you
yet hopelessly devoted to you.
It is an odd thing
to fall in love with Winter,
the realization
moments are now memories,
a beautiful tragedy.
In the end
what was once freshly beginning
is now rotten and stale.
I stink of regret,
an ache with a desperate wish
I could forget you.
As the night drags on,
the hole within me deepens,
a hollowing sound,
the echo of the moonlight
disappearing into the sea.
Chill wraps around me
an avalanche of snow,
like all flowers destined to decay
without light,
I sink into cold shoulders
of midnight blues.
Missing you.
Is there no fate worse
than death,
except in the suffering
of the living left
grieving the loss of what was
or what will never be?
Perhaps
someday
the sun will see it fit
to shine again,
revive the dead,
wither the pain
within me;
place my heart
on the pedastal
of love's elusive bloom.

the early bird crows
I listen to the sunrise
the cloud fingers
plucking the strings of
a golden harp