I’ve dreaded this imploding moment
my entire life unknowingly,
if there was a way to avoid it; I have blown it,
growing pains should end when you stop growing.

I’ve got speckle scars on my palms
they’re always kissing my fingernails,
there’s only one thing I’ve found that calms,
but the road collapses or the guide always bails.
“This is your brain”, but the egg doesn’t crack,
no sizzling grease rain, no white burning black.

It’s the things that feel the best that also cause the pain,
as you can only enjoy the sunshine when you’ve had a spout of rain.
Just like you can’t have a fire without an initial spark,
and you can’t bathe in the light unless you’re drowning in the dark.

But what if I’m tired of obvious consequence,
Hell, I’m tired of everything these ******’ days,
where self medicating was once used in past tense,
I think it’s time for me to revert to my old ways.

So fill a rig until it’s completely full,
and shoot me up with some false hope,
it correlates your method of push over pull,
but it’s still not as good as actual dope.
And let me rail a line of pure nirvana and bliss,
if you’re the one to cut it atleast you gave it to me technically,
if something was never there, how can it be something you miss?
I’ll keep feeding the habit until I can no longer breathe.

Destiny lost when fate found a wall of defy
to change it I would sell all of my remaining soul,
and I think I now know the reason why,
a bandaid won’t ever cover a bullet hole.

due to a lack of talent
in the writing sphere
a plagiarist will see fit
to pinch other poet's gear

brilliance not present
on the nib of the pen
hence a copyist will purloin
every now and then

a rich source of poetry
is tapped into online
as if robbing the golden nuggets
from a Colorado mine

their coda reads like
this let's nick a stanza
stowing the best *****
for a thieving bonanza

without any conscience
the reproducer does steal
making much of other's works
which are so ideal

Keening high notes mark our eyes
with scattered tears that multiply
with every breath we take in vain
and every longing lover's sigh.

Cellos resonate our hearts.
Timpani drums announce our march,
and when choirs sound like screams of pain
I know what it feels like to remain apart.
                            
                                                     Al Coda
                                                Let's try this again,
                                                ere this depression,
                                                this lonely obsession,
                                                eats away at my brain.

Keening high notes mark my eyes,
because I know what it feels like to remain apart.
It's the requiem of a broken heart.
It's the sound of a Lark Ascending
that falls before the symphony's ending;
The caged lonely bird that dies at the start.