There was a thought,
but it is lost.
It had been pure in the
impurest of ways.
It sought to defile the innocence,
prolong the sin that is writing.

It is too late.
The thought that wants,
that needs,
but will not.
It will vanish and leave nothing
but
pure
thought.

It is there
without words to describe it;
without the moment it lives in;
without a slivering snakes sssslush
        sac full of venom.
Venom, that it is.
Injecting itself
without the mind knowing.
Killing, callous,
couth - as one might imagine.

It exists
but not in context,
separately from its source.
Detached,
despondent,
erratic despite it's sharpness,
it's potency.

A thought that if thought about
you cannot elaborate enough.
It is sophisticated,
in the ways that writing is.
It will come and it will go
but it will always fester.
Decaying the process of thought.

Yeah yeah I see it now
Your cold embrace
And sweat on the brow

Sure sure it might have been
The sleepless night
Full of wicked sin

Blah blah was your last line
Into a wasteland
And here’s my sign

I hate myself for what I did to you.
I never wanted to leave.
I’m sorry that I couldn’t make you happy.
I’m sorry that I wasn’t enough.
You brighten up the room more than a camera flash at the Cheesecake Factory.
You brighten up my soul more than that.
I question how I’ve made it this far without you by my side.
I was trying to change.
Nothing I say will fix anything.
I just hope you’re happy now.
I don’t think I’ll ever be.
I love you more than life itself,
And I’d give it up to relive the past.

I miss your laugh,
I miss your touch,
I miss your face,
I miss your embrace.
I broke a part of you
I never can replace.
Wounds once where
Scars have taken place.
You have my soul
All control.
Send me to hell
My forever home.