our clothes,
our tattered clothes
are torn up and frayed,
unsightly and stained
the bindings are strained,
they fit no longer
the hemming gave 'way,
they hold no longer

our feet,
our blistered feet
are cut up, in pain,
aching, inflamed
their will's been bent,
they heave no longer
their life's been spent,
they move no longer

our hearts,
our hollowed hearts
are battered and bruised,
worn out and used
all has been drained,
they bleed no longer
their thumping has waned,
they beat no longer

our hopes,
our shattered hopes
are blackened and greyed,
broken, dismayed
all has been lost,
we hope no longer
we're wont to last,
we yearn no longer

our souls,
our flustered souls
are darkened and swayed,
lost and derailed
their glow's been dulled,
they shine no longer
their flow's been culled,
they live no longer

our hands,
our calloused hands,
tho' wounded and gashed,
hardened and bashed
are all we have to show at the end of the day...

Will I ever reach you
when there are tides surging and sweeping anything in between?

Have you seen something on these stair steps winding within?

Wild-eyed hope scurry into the woods of the night to heed the call,

wasted so many years growing up to find nothing beyond these walls.

I falter hearing blood and friends are in their ways broken, but all I do is listen and pretend to understand,

decipher encrypted messages of fate engraved in their calloused hands.

We are spent being rogue satellites looking for a sign of life,

fledgling wanderers cut by thorns through age made contrite.

When time plucks us out of the tree I’m hoping to pop up somewhere where the sun is free,

unlike this place where the end is only thing guaranteed.

And you and I laugh about it, a reprieve from crying out of sight,

so we hide behind comforting lies,
for the hurt is in the try.

It’s hard to own a face
in a confined and crowded space,

quietly we must go
and in time, leave without a trace.

Yet, though there are waves between us, let me know when you find a beacon guiding you back to the shore,

that unseen in the great unknown, there is much left unexplored.

I am tired of writing so much about you
I am tired of seeing how excited your eyes were,
only to find out
that you're gaze wasn't fixed to mine.
Those pair of sad eyes were searching for someone else's face
in a room full of strangers

Today, I am not writing of how sad I was,
but, I am writing the things about you-

How deaf you were
that you cannot hear what my heart was telling you-
of how sad it was,
of how tired it was,
of how numbed and calloused it was.

But now, I am relearning how to wipe my own tears