I'll love you until the sun rises.
After that it won't matter anymore.

You loved me once
But never twice.
Never warmly, cold as ice.
It says sorry in your eyes
Somewhere between deception and the lies.
Now you're gone
And I'm here
Wiping tears from ear to ear
Don't come back, time to erase,
But I'll leave the door unlocked just in case.

He plays with my hair until his fingers get tangled,
I keep them there in fear that it's the last thing keeping us connected.

The willow tree looks like it's wilting more than usual today,
As if there are invisible weights tied around the branches dragging it towards the ground.
I don't see resistance in the branches; no apparent will to perk up.
It's given up.
This nature lies so strangely parallel to my life, as if the invisible weights reflect my stance in society.
Held back. Hard to break away. Difficult to want to make change.

I exist in your nightmares,
lacerating your innocent logic
hidden behind your confined contorted consciousness.
Breaking out in the real world
has never been an option, for the
inhibition of your mind gives me
too much pleasure.
Complete control.
Anything you do or say is a complete
reflection off of the fact that I
exist in you.
Manipulating your feelings.

I want my conscience to scream at me
the things I don't want to hear.
Unleash hidden phobia's that dwell
in the back of my mind, behind the list
of "Things to Don't" and cleverly though-out
processes that are supposed to get me
through the day. I'd like a choir of voices in harmony
chanting at me, "You're not listening, you're not listening, you're not listening! when I begin to allow all of my daily life to become the product of a carefully
calculated
equation that's imploding with equivocal nonsense that brews beneath the surface that you're slowly drowning under.
I want to wake up. I want to wake up and know that I awoke from a dream; a dream that stripped me of my pride, wore and tore me down.
I want to wake up with the realization that it was always ME
who filled the void and did it consciously. I need no illusion.
Yet the illusion is what intercedes my trust and my predetermined path to a tainted utopia.
You know, it's that place where angels go to die and people take off their shoes at the door only to still track mud made out of unfinished aspirations all
over the youth-stained carpet.
Why is it so hard to let it go, to let go of what I thought I knew.
A self I thought I was;
A book on a shelf I thought I read which said, "Free of Body, Free of Mind";
I want to free myself, from myself.

I murdered a can today, all for the benefit of me. Gashed holes in its heart with the use of one thumb-tack; took a final stab to its back to finish it off. I positioned its body to rise on the sides of the gashes, that way it could better cup my offerings. Once in place, I reached into my backpack and retrieved a vibrant green blanket to lay over the wounds I inflicted; I then create a fire. The blanket burns on top of the cans disfigured corpse, creating fumes of guilt and relaxation. Once the fragrance of ash enters my senses, the can is revealed--- it’s badly burnt. I found the nearest garbage can and chucked it.