I swear it seems like I can never escape this rut I fall into, always digging a little deeper, slowly losing sight of the light, no ladder to pull myself out, so I sit in this rut, cheeing my nails until they've bled, racing my thoughts until I am dead. I am so sick of feeling high and then low, high then low. I think if death a bit too much, as if today will be my last day, one swift move of the wheel and BAM! I am free, but really I wouldnt be free. I'd be stuck once again in a rut, called my grave.

It's an old question.
Pilate asked.
Keats told us.
It's what we believe.
A lie is truth.
Some lies may coincide
With my truth,
But never quite the same.
There's always a bit of truth
In every line.

I wanted to raise the coffin lid
But I never got to see how the city
Treats the ones life defeats
How the skin rots when it’s not
Maintained by being embalmed
But the coffin was locked
And the hour was late
The crowd was gathering
And the service couldn’t wait

The evening sipped
Its golden bright,
as the sun spilled
it's yellow stomach
spoke in streams
of babbled havoc.
Slinging a silvery palm
along the slender hip
of wanton youth in
wishful grip.

O' to be young,
to be young
without the cares
of the infirm full,
of knar's and knot
like the desires of an
old oak tree.

To touch,
the velvet rose light
of the beauty
in her skin,
lovingly caressed
of wistful eye
and
age of bristle.