she resembled a graveyard
her body cemetaries
her eyes six feet too deep.
she claims she's not dead.
she mutters whispers barely audible
"i am not the corpse,
i am not the water that will drown you,
i am the noose tied too tight,
i am the trigger that is pulled,
the bottle of pills swallowed, the overdose.
she acts as if it's something to be proud of
something to be admired.
my hands too cold to be felt,
she is the thought that always crosses
the mind of a sad boy.
i am simply a skeleton with skin too big
for these weary bones.
i am the coffin and nothing more
than the dirt used to bury it.
the hourglass is coming to it's final stretch.
is this what it feels like to be alive?

it's impossible to be alive when you're already

                         dead.

I exist as a mirror
Wild lights have glazed over your skin
My whispers are tarnished
Our bodies a shield
Against the coming chills of a brittle wind

I linger with a breeze-like touch,
It comes out hoarse and swollen.
Thoughts  uttered with a breath of regret
Or a sigh of relief.

Your face turns foreign, a mesh of dark warmth
A light without the sun.
We’re all a wounded red
on the inside.

2 am and i can't sleep
wide awake too tired to weep
funny how feelings
can make you weak
it's a long road, rough and steep
just hope i find the peace i seek.

people are so sweet and kind
if only they could help unwind
the tortured ropes within my mind
could help me break
the chains that bind
only God can help me find
bless'd release from this
pain which grinds

carrying a sack of stones
is no weight to bear alone
it will break my very bones
i want to cry, but will not groan
what I must do is clearly shown
i must be humble and atone.

i've got a message to be spread
been writing vanity instead
when all is done, all is said
when pretense is finally shed
is it truth or lies i've fed
my fire, in truth, is almost dead.

try and understand, my friends
no matter what the current trends
this path we're on
has trech'rous bends
the broad way winds
the narrow wends
but all paths DO have their END.

though i have been torn apart
it is time for a new start
strength comes from
the peaceful heart...


(c) soulsurvivor

I am the product of my mistakes,
attitude, the way to success,
sometimes they make me stronger
sometimes a sense of pain.

Poetry is just the thread,
that sneaks out of my face,
basting those feelings,
with the rest.