They said it would get easier.
They always say that though, don't they?

A decade has gone by since the moment of my descent, when the sun began to set over me.

Ten years of surviving instead of living, constantly struggling and slipping.
Ten years of feeling the tediousness of each hesitant breath, mourning again & again after each sudden death.
Ten years of wondering when it was going to start getting easier like they all promised it would.

But the only thing getting easier is ignoring the pain of fresh wounds from old habits.

If you look in the nook of the tree by the brook you'll find a small book written of the truth that I took from the speech of your eyes and the way time flies, and if everything lasts until everything dies then the truths aren't lies and the goods aren't byes.

We sat in the middle of the tunnel, cold rails under us while we drowned in darkness. The faint light coming from either side gave a false hope of comfort as though maybe you'd see a silhouette of some ethereal shadow-creature before it struck.

Drips dropped from the rocky surfaces and echoed, faintly, & ever so often; just often enough to remind us that time was passing.
The wisps of smoke that danced away from the tip of the blunt vanished into the darkness as easily as we had, our faces only visible when the orange ember surged to life during each inhale.

We sat and we spoke, and when we weren't speaking we were listening to the silence that resonated in between those dripdrops of condensation.

As full of smoke as the tunnel, we trudged our way back towards that faint wall of light that marked the edge. The invisible rails that had been our seats slowly crept back into existence as we moved on, more light slipping in between the darkness we had been inhabiting.

The silence took his cue and bowed out gracefully as the conversations of insects and nearby highways began, leaving us with each other as we continued on our way.

I'm stuck in the labyrinth I've created for myself, stone and cold to the touch.
Each turn takes me deeper, farther.
Each turn makes me stronger.
Stone and cement, as far as I see, each turn changes from day to day.
The people I see, the things I do, each decision changing the end.
The walls are damp, I've lost count of days, I've been walking forever searching for the finish line.
I may never get there, perpetually lost between the walls.
I grit my teeth and barrel forward,
backwards only holds more questions.
Alone with my thoughts, I'm scared at every corner. Alone in my mind, I'm terrified to solve the puzzle.

I sit and I think,
alone and forgotten.
I stare and I blink
and I simply feel rotten.

The trip has been long,
& there's no port to see.
I've forgotten my song
and my reason to be.

I need to find passion,
something that makes me alive.
I'm almost out of rations
and I've barely survived.

The days were slowly wasted,
I never tasted my dream.
So now, I sit sedated
and torn at the seam.

A storm cloud of cigarette smoke hangs over my ocean of ***.
The rumblings of disappointment shake the breath in my lungs. The last beats of hope echoing quietly through my heart.
No purpose, no goal, no reason at all; alone with my thoughts--wherever they go.

You're a whirlwind of chaos that calms my choppy seas; a balance to both of our rough waves.

A solid rock to lean on.
A never judging soul.

Someone who can roll a joint and is willing to pack a bowl.
A constant in many equations and an ever changing variable that mystifies & mesmerizes during all of our relations.

The way you move with the waves of the world, the music of nature, and the groove of the 'verse can only be cited as a blessing and a curse.

For all of this, I'm extremely grateful.
For you're a wonder of nature and our meeting was fateful.

Why are my desires only ever existent in flashes, never to come to fruition, never more than simple dashes.

A temporary tease, a taste of it all; a bit to just lift me enough so I fall.

How do I reach a dream when I'm always waking up? Too tired to try for a lifestyle too tough.

I used to write, just for you.
You used to be my worldly muse.
You took each day, and erased the blue.
You made me know just what to do.

I used to write, to tell you things.
About my soul, and how it sings.
About my heart, afloat with wings.
But now, the phone, it barely rings.

I used to write, to hear your voice.
I used to write, without a choice.
I used to write, and then rejoice.

I used to write.

My muse is slinking down the walls, chasing away the shadows of self doubt.

They're running back from where they came.
They're leaving me alone.

She's dancing in the glowing lights; she makes the room grow bigger.

She makes me feel so good inside, but she only ever lingers.

In those fleeting moments, I'm happy without a care.
Happy without reason.
Happy just because.

I want to prolong it, although I know it has to end.

Eventually the lights all fade.

Eventually reality wins.

But now I write just for me.
Now I write so I can see.
Now I write to let it be.

I write to empty a cluttered mind, and to escape the daily grind.
I write to search and I write to find, but I don't write so that I can rewind.

What's past didn't last, what's coming is coming fast, and what's here now simply has me aghast.

I write to create, but mostly to destroy.
I take perfect paper and litter it with words, I fill it with thoughts I may not enjoy.

I write to stay sane, inane, but not plain. The words, my umbrella, from all of the rain.

I don't write for her, nor them, nor you.
I write for me & my demons, and that'll have to do.

A thing of pure beauty
is just what I do see
when I gaze at what could be
between you and me.