The world.
Is.
Smaller now.
Regardless of how insignificant a life is.
The grand scheme means little.
Is it ignorance..
Or acceptance.
That perpetuates the question.
For those wise enough to answer.
Is the same as those wise enough to not.
This prison of cycles.
Rotates and regulates.
The quality of living shifts gears to auto pilot.
And the low rumble of marching is heard.
In the distance.
As it always is.
Comes chaos.
Pain at its heels.
The weary shall never rest.
Nor should it surprise..

We all have those that ground us.
Make us tangible.
There to remind that the blood that sometimes.
Spills.
Is infinitely finite.
And when they fall away.
Leaving you.
Floating.
Anchorless.
Inches from the ground.
But having neglected certain skills for so long.
Finding meaning to make landfall.
Is not a destination at all.
Nor searching for things that fiegn permanence.
The air has become frigid over the years.
One must adjust.
Or lose more than imagination.
Ever dared.

It isn't always an imperfect meaning.
Nor never as flawless as we wish it to be.
These constant cycles are in place to keep the masses sane.
Distracted from the fact that they will live and die in the same fashion.
In small.
Insignificant.
Boxes.
Much like the time Punch cards that enslave them.
Even with evolution of time the average worker is still.
Just binary..
Infinitly encoded to mediocrity which sadly.
Has no bottom.
Nor was one programed.
But by the sweat of our forefathers did they carve a place.
For the next generation to pick up and sew the seeds for the next.
And so on.
And so on..
And so on...
Until some one with more wit than grit comes along.
To dissolve the mundane routine.
And possibly shake free from the chains of old.
But with so many ready to turn the other cheek.
That time.
could be some time away.

There are some days.
That self opinion.
Comes easy.
Memories dictate such.
Enlongated moments.
People trade their present for it.
To relive.
No.
To replay.
The meaning it once held.
Like that person wasn't them.
As if who walked around then.
Was some sort of effect.
The mirror responds.
Daily.
Without pause.
Winters bite.
Turns to summers kiss.
The longing only subsides.
When the race is done.
Only there is no such marker.
Just a slab of earth to remind us.
That.
Wishful thinking is all we are.
Thrown into a bucket.
While wasting away on lists.
The only regret worry having.
Is to fret over life.
Faces upon faces.
Micromanage the living.
An image.
Long since abstract.
Cascades through everything.
And once in awhile.
Can sense be found.
So pick a distraction.
And get lost along the way.
Then.
And only then.
Will nothingness find.
You.

There is absolutely.
Nothing.
That can be put down.
Without having some sort of predecessor...
Like embarking on a grand adventure.
Will sooth the distress within.
Channeling more against an already rampant current.
Only leads to the depths that one has become so well acquainted.
Yet persistent is the ignorant.
Craving an end no longer attainable.
Anything can stir the wanting.
When all that is left is the road ahead

There is a tune in the air.
Begging the question to dance or not.
And as the swaying begins.
The song  vanishes.
But the players go on.
With no music sheets.
Or their repective sound makers.
Like watching a mime orchestra.
And somehow people continue dipping and tossing about.
As if they were dancing to masters of thier craft.
It's hard to see anyones face due to the mime make up.
Making up this entire facade of a grand ball of sorts.
Yet the more time that passes.
The less control one has of a body soon to be apart.
Apparently placebos manifest wherever this is indiffernce.
Tears fall from the cheeks of this sad mime.
Decipherring their actual presence has been difficult for some time now.
Maybe it's time to wash on a new face.
And just fade away into the crowd.
A skill that has become more useful than air.
For living has taught that equallity.
Is a myth.
And adults choose the pain of adulthood.
So it can be passed down the generations.
To spoil one more dream.
Because its wrong to believe in fairy tales.
Or much of anything.

Can you smell it.
The static in the air.
Clinging to all it can.
As her strength fades too fast.
But then Flying always..
Never lasted long enough.
Sliding past obstructions like they were excuses.
Only stopping to look at the roses when someone else points out their beauty.
Yes, they are just flowers.
Yet they know rejection more than any person.
For they will only get chosen once.
But until then they must watch millions of faces go by in silence.
Then as they are put to their final use.
Some may get placed away for safe keeping.
Placed between rows and columns on either side.
Windows that can be made  into anything.
The Pressure is immense.
One can only hope to retain form with as little decay as possible.
Transforming into the only page without words.
Ask the ink if they know the scent to which they will  lie down for all eternity.
Only there is no answer that would comfort those unwilling to sacrifice.
Give up what matters most.
Because standing here means it was already done.
So what else is there to give.
But pages depicting what could not be found.
The line to insanity and enlightenment has never been such a blur.
Hopefully this trail provides the later.
Although if it is not to be.
Its doubtful you would remember even asking the question.

This must be it.
The holy land that was a said to be.
Filled to the brim with people.
Only none of the faces are that of friends.
Just a conundrum of silence and.
Desolate expressions.
Even eye contact is avoided.
For fear of catching some imaginary disease.
Contracted through acknowledgement.
So the wandering begins.
Single file.
Through invisible rope ways  
Giving this limbo some form of organization.
Days and nights pass.
They soon will mean little more than the number next to it.
For keeping count.
Is the only highlight in abundance.

It tares.
And shrieks.
As sludge oozes from its maw.
A sickeningly sadistic synchronization.
Of self.
An imageless idea.
Yet present.
Semantics says otherwise.
The minds eye can only see so far.
For those circling about.
Have already claimed the categorization.
Regardless.
A demon can only hide for so so long.
Before it too begins to believe.
And act accordingly.

How.
Will never come close to when.
Because every memory made together.
Swept us into the timelessness that we provided eachother.
It was a fluid river turned rapid.
But somehow ended up in the thinning rings of ours irises.
Cradled by the sincere promises.
Unchained with razor words which cut so deep.
We never thought to mend the wounds that kept bleeding trust.
A termite that would one day bring down the love we built upon such stable foundation.
But the story doesnt end there.
Not because our path remained one.
Not because we don't know we are supposed to be together.
But because of how for a brief period..
We did what so many others will never be able to do.
Looking past all the cheesy...
All the cliché over the top can't get enough of eachother while taking so many pictures.
That one could recount every day for months at a time without missing.
A.
Single.
Frame.
No.
This tale will go on because knowing paradise for just that small amount of time.
Has left a choppy stutter to grow from my throat.
Coating the real.
Into a reanimated rerun of imperfection.
That I have cursed myself to meander upon..
The only thing keeping this tattered mess afloat.
Is the knowledge that maybe one day..
Far into the future.
I might get a chance to rectify my decision.
Maybe one day.
I'll make her smile again.

My compass can’t decide on a point.
And neither can my mind.
The list goes on as far back as the paces remain in the sand.
There was a time I would let the wind take me anywhere.
But these chains are ever so cumbersome.
Reality seems to want me right here.
There is no forcing the paradigm this time.
No amount of meditation can cleanse this sin.
For one can only ask for forgiveness so many times.
And now.
The tattoo remains.
Coiling about.
Ushering those dormant thoughts and urges.
Right to the very surface.
Only the seal.
Was lost some time ago.
Or rather thrown away.
But semantics will get us nowhere.
And neither will indifference.
Choice.
Follow the white rabbit.
Or believe.
That we forge our own luck.
Only there isn’t a single master about.
For all we truly do.
Is fumble with the tools.
And expect.
A masterpiece.

I regurgitate lifeless sentences.
The breathe I draw can barely keep wind.
Everyone is waiting for a scream.
That I say is not present.
Nor filled with sed distraction from truth.
I have waded through muk and grime.
Loved it at one time I suppose.
These stained hands remind and reminisce.
And the echo continues..
Laughing in my face.
His face.
Grinning.
Spinning.
Lasting.
It's a wonder I am...
Still...
Sane?

I have done a great deal of things.
In the name of nothing.
Self preservation.
Fickle is thou.
Yet jest through feats of strength.
As this convoluted mirage passes by..
So much blood has been split.
A multitude of coppery pennies in the mouth.
Can one wash out blood.
With more blood..
A question pulled upon.
With every strike of the hammer.
Can there still be salvation.
Redemption..
How is it that one can still look into the eyes of others.
And smile.
Knowing full well of the pollution inside.
Waiting to consume.
And spread.
How much longer can these staples hold.
Before they too will slip.
And unravel.

There is so much unaccounted for.
Is it strange to feel so alone.
Yet still feel jumbled around
In some tastless concoction
That is more and more bitter with ever sip.
This worlds populace just smears into little ice cube trays waiting to be misunderstood.
Made to represent a whole while still maintaining some sort of murky sense of self beneath the surface.
And as more time goes on.
One can't help but meld into the weave.
No more than a ripple in a puddle.
And what was just a pond just moments before.
Has morphed into a chasm to rival the steps to hell.
And it's these stone pillars that has conditioned any who pass.
Forever riding this grotesque escalator in the wrong direction.
For even when this body is beyond broken.
An unseen pupeteer tugs at the noiseless chains.
Sheer will is all that's left to keep consciousness.
But then again.
Who's to say this is a choice either.
Demented or dementia...

The cavas has been stained.
Numerous times over.
With every stroke.
Every decisive decision.
Remains.
Then it begins to paint itself.
This so called piece of unique art.  
Almost all the white is gone.
Splashed over.
And again.
With more colorful pigments and hues.
Yet covering up the past with a brighter saturation.
Only hides what's underneath.
Until it dries of course.
Making a corroding concoction of congested collisions.
That neither the painter.
Or the art would ever understand.
And so the piece goes on.
In search of a lasting peace.
While forever in limbo.
Awaiting the day when a new sheet of cavas will arrive.

There are so many things.
Moments.
Embraces.
Jokes.
Kisses.
Comforting words.
Lovely scents from intricate bottles.
The feeling of your fingers gliding up and down.
Then the electric hum that cascades afterward.
A list that can extend to the heavens.
Is now a momento to a time that i wished would also be unending.
Im not bleeding.
Im not breathing..
Im not achieving...
I tried to move mountains.
And failed.
I tried to be more than i was.
And stumbled.
I tried to do what others could not.
And lost..
I want so badly to encompass and embody all that was needed.
Yet it sadly consumed me and spat me out of pity.
Why are there days coming that should have your presence...
And now don't.
What purpose can there be in being in love..
When it can grow else where at anytime.
Anger crippled our relationship..
But neglect was the rocket fuel.
I fear that heart brake may be the end.
For motivation to BE is slipping.
You will always be beautiful.
Always be generous and kind.
You will be the woman i will need to compare to others.
And will never come close.
You are going to be last thing on my mind for the rest of my life..
And that..is something that i will sadly cherish.
Perhaps i will be worth it just like you are.
Maybe one day..this sorrow will end.

A smile can mean so many different things.
Or mean something and then add a twist at the end.
To prove no one really understands the maelstrom that resides within.
being a unique snow flake still means one of a kind.
and these 4 walls as friends is getting too loud.
each direction is a new black hole to search for insanity.
it wasn't always like this.
they got darker with every sentence scrawled from broken and ****** fingers.
the scent still lingers the darkest places but having learned to evade some treacherous acts.
even if its only from walking into it dumbfounded so many times.
it seems like repetition is the theme branded on this life.
sadly there is no limit to failure.
or pain.
and all the pleasantries are so finite.
its hard not to ask the question.
but stupid is.
as stupid ******* does.
so may the next land mine be the last.
for punishment is the only gluttonous act to truly gorge.
it will get much worse, this fate can attest to.
so should this smile fade before then.
will the dark be everlasting.

Why does one feel the need to taunt fire.
Dangle just above.
Inticing pain.
Disregarding consequence
As if bathing in such might just scorch away the sins still felt.
From the last searing moments.
Is it hope.
This irrational graspless object.
That most won't leave the house without it.
Tomorrow..
Must be the time in which truth is found.
Even if questioning existence to faceless figments is the requirement.
Over and over does the rabit hole disintegrate the mind.
Until.
The next choice is presented.

Place your hand.
Swear the oath.
Picture exactly where.
It.
Happened.
Words disintegrate definitions.
As images blur by.
The story unhinges a little more.
With every retelling.
Lost into the pool with the rest of the forgotten.
There are some that hook the mind.
Weighing down the subconscious.
With little effort.
As if these...
Afflictions.
Were sentient themselves.
Cunning is the silent killer.
With every new experience.
Comes an equal wound.
Blood has no meaning here.
Yet the cold wraps around like deaths blanket.
It is only when each function is exhausted.
Every seam undone.
Will we finally unravel.
Revealing.
Irony incarnate.
For this choice was never.
Yours to make.

It is always in the darkest of tombs.
Does a radiant gem shine the brightest.
Among those that found themselves.
Mere stones.
There to steal whatever hue granted.
As if precedence was the one lacking.
But every now and again.
Two would come together.
Illuminating the inner sanctum with their collision.
Only this match was set before it began.
No amount of kindling could stir ash.
Yet the lightning that flashed.
Ignited events.
In whispers.
Sorrow.
Hope.
Persistence.
It's only in this universe.
That existence overlaps itself.
In preservation.
For what else is there.
When death is used as a teaching tool.
Just to educate the mindless into ignorant coma.
A lasting self induced hypocrisy.
One that is always just an instant away.
But forevermore unspoken.

It's hard.
To do the one thing.
So many say.
Should be easy.
The physical world.
Is all I know.
Beyond that.
Is theoretical.
Which in have come to find is quite.
Simple.
When and how.
Its textbook.
Only my surroundings protest at its.
Magnitude.
I must be looking at this equation.
Wrong.
Two plus two equals four.
Yet sadness and loss equal so much more.
This rubix cube of emotions.
Can it be solved?

Where did simplicity fall away.
With so many cogs in motion.
One can easily overlook and forget.
To the point that rust has set in.
Made immobile by negligence.
Only when the pieces begin to crumble.
Is notice taken.
It always feels as if this clockwork maze.
Never shifts in the favor desired.
Creating more and more pathways.
Only to congest it further.
The air is thick with dissspointment.
And each action seems to disrupt the inner workings more each time.
With little else to do.
And tools in disrepair.
One continues forth.
Regardless of how dark it gets.

Why does everything begin with a.
Question.
Marking the exact point.
In which any event can be traced back to.
They usually end with more questions than.
Answers.
Even in the times that one comes about.
It doesn't seem to be the answer.
Desired.
A race born of arrogance.
As if we have ever truly had the right to pick and choose.
A voice must be heard.
But why must this voice speak at all.
At what point did we bestow relevance to.
Ourselves.

A routine has been formed.
One that crippled what smile is left.
Leaving a bad taste.
On a worse mood.
It is said.
Willpower.
Exceeds the minds threshold.
But it can only keep those standing.
For so long after the tank read empty.
Rims bare..
Tires nonexistent.
Was this once a vehicle?
The bells and whistle have long since fallen away.
Negligence can ****.
Even the most relient.
Patience into anger.
Understanding to woe.
There are just to many excuses..
Reasons.
To why.
Justification is required
In the end.
Breaking down.
Seems to be the only solution left.
For little else matters.
As apathy sets in.
Slowly the light from the eyes fade.
And...
Motivation..
May soon follow suit

Its hard to claim the breathe that is gifted to these lungs.
Difficult to boast about the idea of owned space.
Yet it is seen.
Time and time again.
Personal.
Space.
As if everyone has forgotten.
The probability which led to ones own realization.
How easily the consciousness could have never came to be.
Its just shunned away to the darkest corner.
Not even allowed space in the brain.
The here and now tales precedence over what will never be.
And to an extent it is justified.
For no one should live by what ifs.
But.
To claim ownership of the air that all existence shares.
Well.
Who am I to chastise.
There are too many ways to describe pretentious.
And somehow this mind tires endlessly with the maze of its undoing.
Sentences repeat and rearrange themselves.
Until rubbing tired eyes no longer sooths the minds eye.
Waste.
Waste.
waste.
May there come and day.
That the later takes hold.
Then maybe exhaling wont feel so.
Unsatisfying.

The candle is almost at its end..
A once bouncing flame atop its mountain.
Now sputters for life.
Grasping at anything to just remain.
It seemed the more hands that would come to shield.
The faster the wax walls would cascade down.
Its sad..
To watch something so beautiful.
Turn grotesque.
Monsterous.
Feeding on the life force of anything it came into contact with.
Justifying the actions to build such an elaborate facade.
The creator is held by its deception.
Cultivating flaws as if it needed some appraisal.
But in the end it just lacked approval.
Washing hands in the same water the idea was brought to drown in.
Whispering sweet nothings to sooth a hemoraging mind.
But when it was the same hand that inflicted the wound.
Will this game truly turn rampant.
So long as there is a die to be cast.
The possibility of loaded questions commemorate the stacked odds.
For when the turn comes.
And the die are no longer an option.
Will the board glide away.
game over.

Potential.
It is always said to be right there...
Hidden behind the disproportionate layers of.
filth.
That had collected over the years.
Incessantly knocking.
******.
As a new layer begins to dry.
Yet the sound reverberates through.
Chipping away at what little security was left.
Taunting
Tainting.
One could grow mad.
With little else to distract the mind.
For with every strike.
Would there be an equal.
Fall.
just as expected.
Demanding a new sacrifice each time.
With blood and sorrow.
Only the well has long since been dry.
And for whatever reason.
The bucket is sent down.
To retrieve more of this.
Nothingness.
For insanity.
Is the only thing in abundance.
Here.

I have always let my direction drift along.
Wafting in any which way.
Weaving by any obstacle presented.
Now within the eye of the storm.
I lay helpless.
Lightning and debris course around me.
Crashing into any that dare obstruct its path.
All I can do is watch.
As everything that I had ever dreamed.
Evaporates.
The rain comes down in droves.
Only there is no redemption.
No everlasting rebirth.
All that is left are scars.
Some so deep.
Not a single soul can fathom.
This hurricane knows well the destruction it wields.
Violently laughing as every wall tumbles to the ground.
How much more must I be dragged along.
A mere witness.
Must I always be the one to tell the tale of those that fell silent.
Or will I too finally be consumed.
Becoming the delirious fool of the next ballad.

My fingers hover over the keyboard.
Contemplating.
Fumbling on sentences and words to interchange into something worthwhile.
Multiple sighs escape as line after line is deleted from the white abyss.
So much time was spent trying to think of what emotion was present at the time.
And so often was there nothing.
Using emotion was like changing a shirt.
Acting and reacting to things.
Colors and auras  blend and clash.
Its haunting.
Knowing when to execute a laugh.
perfectly.
I was more lost than I dare even dream.
And although being fluid led to here.
I cant help but wonder.
Why I acquired them at all.
Like clockwork I am refreshed with the concept.
For truly understanding sorrow.
Pain.
Despair.
Hatred...
Only then can the latter.
Not only be acknowledged.
But understood

Time.
No more an enemy than friend.
Least of all a stranger.
It is not tangible.
But causes simultaneous healing and pain.
Those who understand this.
Must also invite hope.
Must also expect sorrow.
As a human can not survive life without scars.
Learn to anticipate the storm when thunder rolls.
Watching the rain come down.
Day after day.
Consuming light and warmth.
Yet seasons pass.
Regardless of awareness.
And the truth forgotten.
Is that the sun is just beyond.
Behind the darkest of clouds.
Ready to give the downbeatten soil reprieve.
As cliche as this cycle can be.
I know we will stand in the sunlight once again.
Experiences and habits to the wind.
Having poured my soul into a small circle.
Of two.
The horizon is just around the bend.
Never take your eyes off of that point.
For in the distance is where we will meet again.
This is not the end of Stori.