You changed,
You changed
I walked a way
To keep myself
I lost the game.
The game,
The game,
You were not fair
It was a war
I left you there.
You’re there,
You’re there,
And there you’ll stay.
You play the game.
I’ve walked away.

"Keep your friends close,
and your enemies closer,"
Is what they say.

But nothing hurts more than
Keeping the ones you love close,
But the one you couldn't love, closer.

My life is The Truman Show
I openly cry the nights away,
I openly admit I miss the one I love,
I openly admit my wrongs,
I openly weep tears of joy,
I openly say I hate myself,
I openly say I love myself,
I openly use tissues to caress my skin,
I openly wipe my tears away,
I openly know I don't sleep when I'm sad,
I openly admit to being sad,
I openly treasure the people i love,
I openly believe that fate is still around,
I openly admit I'm weak,
I openly admit I need others help
I openly admit I've been broken by people,
I openly admit I don't want to live at times,
I openly admit I probably won't be able to get over that one person,

But....

My Life is a True Man Show.
And crying does not make me any less of a man.

It kills me to think of your innocence
In how you loved everything
In your belief that everyone was good
Then I barged into your life
Ruined you in ways unimaginable
I swear I loved you but I couldn't show it
I tried to tell you I was broken
But this pride wouldn't allow me

I can't apologize and I can't console you
I restrain myself from trying to see you
You'll move on and everything will be okay
The memory of me will be nothing more
Then a blemish on your perfect skin
My perfume will no longer intoxicate you
It'll blend with your scent and attract everyone
You'll find someone deserving of your love

I will cover every part of my body in shame
Hiding the scars left by your loving touch
Strands of my hair that twirled on your finger
Grey every day losing their pigment
I can smell you everywhere I go
Like a stain that set and cannot be removed
Your whispers of promises and happiness
Are now haunting voices driving me insane

I'll continue to be made of rotting material
With a memory of love I never deserved
You'll be this glorious human being
Who realized never to settle for the worst

This one goes to the real poets.
To those who decide to carry the world on their own.
To those who carry hell in their head and a graveyard of lost love stories in their heart
To the brave ones who fight darkness with darkness.
Tho those who the only answer they seek from a god is if there's eternal life for their loved ones, because they know there's no space for them in that paradise.
To those who know that suffering is the most humane feeling there is.
To those who loved and hated the wrong person.
This goes to Lorca isolated, hiding in a closet in New York.
To Unamuno craving to believe in something impossible.
To Quiroga drinking the poison of his sorrow at a hospital.
To Becquer and Espino for dying so young.
To Neruda for cheating on himself so many times.
To Machados' lost spirit.
To Marquez and his melancholic ******.
To Poe's tormented soul and his raven.
To Shakespeare and his Juliet.
To Dante and his story of woe.
This goes for the only beings who can live with a hell inside of them, and still manage to write heavenly things for those in need to read.
This one's for us.

Her heart is broken,
But shall be mended,
By love and grace,
From all offended,

Because of love,
And human kind,
No one can bend,
This strong heart line,

As one we love,
As our gods cry,
This world of many,
Shall break the tie,

And follow words,
Not on a page,
But scripted in a life,
Free from rage,

It will come,
It has been said,
When good and evil,
Fight till dead,

And from the pits,
A light will glow,
For goodness wins,
It's seeds will grow,

With evil gone,
The light of love,
Will shine on us,
From gods above.

A thousand angry fingers are fighting.
"I’m right! Im right! There’s wrong in your writing.”
There’s a war of opinion, it's a slaughter of facts,  
as fearful dominions blame who they can for the acts
of hate that they scrape across our tired eyes;
and as we try and decipher truth from the lies.
So soon people point, push, drag and despise
anyone they believe to be the devil in disguise.  
“ Hang them, hit them, beat them down.
Don’t let another one of ‘those' in my good town”.  

I tried to tie my own tongue and keep quiet.
But my fingers felt need to fight in this riot.
Though I am not seeking a thumb from anyone,
I was beginning to fear I was a disloyal son;
for our mother is weeping for every child.
Whether radical, righteous, anxious or mild.  
She’s worried this war, like a fire in the wild,
won’t stop until all is consumed but the ash that is piled.
“ Stop this! Stop this! My dear children!
  Life is so much more than the motives of men"

And I watch this war from a cafe in Glasgow;
outside enjoying coffee, crisps and tobacco.
The smoke swirls my head into a strange sense of comfort,
as before my eyes I watch my own world distort.  
Where political posts attempt to equal social justice.
Where blood, bodies and bombings add to our numbness.
Where others opinions slowly shape and become us.
Where poets lack rhyme, guidance or substance.
Where In friends we see foes, and in fellow citizens: dangers.
Where we speak with our fingers, and to ourselves become strangers.