Life descends into the vice of those who judge... Unconditional opinions give those the nudge... The nudge into darkness we ride... Back into the corner we hide... From those high on life's pleading destruction... It's hard for us to begin our reconstruction... People unable to enter society's plains... Due to the judgmental's menacing claims... It's time we stop listening to those of scorn... It's time to know those are the ones truly torn... For we are all beautiful in our own little ways... It's time to realise it with no more delays...
there is a part of me that I love and a part of me that I hate only it's the same part of me which I love and hate and they are contantly struggling to dominate
maybe you spent too many days in the woods where the quiet lives maybe you never really got along with humans maybe you felt too many branches growing apart inside of you because your skin never sat right on your limbs and with tiny little silver saws you cut yourself open trying to find the pretty amber parts everyone said they saw but in the end it was just red sap and ants and rot and nothing more at all.
my father left on a Thursday and we buried him on a Sunday i'd never witnessed an earth so dull the colors didn't explode and combust the music didn't serenade and echo no, the clouds just poured and poured and poured again mother said the angels were crying because they didn't want him this soon their tears fell through the crevasses of a black sky and my life became a silent film my eyes could only see tones of grey and as i removed my small hand from an oversized coat that belonged to him i held onto the cherry wood of a coffin i looked into it to see the black and white reflection of a small boy whose sadness could not be defined
and a decade later on Sunday the 8th of the bitter cold month of February i wake up with colorless vision and become deaf for the day i revisit your grave and the other mourners look on at me a little child transformed once again weeping in the warmth of a jacket that only seems to grow larger with time and the angels can't help but to cry again their pain reverberates throughout the field of death that appears to have no definite end i peer over the gray hill of gray tombstones and my eyes glaze over with a sheet of liquid melancholy because i realize everyone has their own February the 8th