Fragile, as all things of value are, defines life
Small little things, we often overlook
Forgetting the context, we often realise
What makes up our existence?
Are we always chasing the unknown?
Swimming in a sea of feelings, trying to find the shore.

Trying to process these feelings
It never seems easy
What matters, in the end, is the conquest
Your name in a victory,
To help take meaning away
From all the wrong things you've done
Why do we even need anything
To feel satisfactory?

A sense of pressure puts us down,
Bringing upon a frown
On our fragile little faces
I thought I could be happy forever,
Rather than caring about expectations
Moving on rather than switching off
The past seems like yesterday
Hoping that this evasion from myself,
Will, in one way or other, finally pay off.

I much prefer it when it rains;
theres much less pressure on the day.
It makes me feel like it's alright,
to waste a day alone inside

and wrap myself up in a blanket,
shut out the world. To be quite frank it
hardly makes a lot of sense;
sometimes, I just don't help myself.

Look far and wide for some excuse,
roll left and right, avoid the truth;
rip it all up to start anew,
as often, restless minds will do.

The crucible was a battle
fought by two sinners
both likely to sell the other out
or to shoot one another.
One wore a necklace
of tight inlaid shininess and red.
It was laced with a satin bow
and imbedded with an insignificant little ruby
tied around her neck,
her lovely ringlets hid in the sunshine.
She knew her life was sacred.
Mostly she was right,
but christened in her own right,
it was never suggested to her
that there was any other way around.
The darker side was originally ambivalent
to the nature
of the afflicted golden ringlets.
Thrashing and fighting it,
he, the darkness,
was finally struck with love.
The ambivalent subsided beneath
the imaginary plinth he prayed at,
and there he prayed.
Retorted only through silence as most gods do,
God responded.
Each time the ambivalent shook
and chattered his teeth
as his fears were becoming
all so real.
Waiting to hear a sound
And nothing was there.
He understood the emptiness.
He was truly suffering,
but ultimately obliged to the goodness
of every single perfect ringlet
that made up the woman’s hair.
He knew the repercussions
of going on in other fashions,
and chose instead to end it there
before he had her locked in all their passions.

Holding back is an impulse for those of us
who spell 'happy' with a question mark.

We are the restless, thinking deeply;
trained to accept a consuming plateau.

We follow theories in patterns so as to clumsily grasp at
a conclusion to poke holes in and a reason to follow it
around again - the upended bicycle wheel spins and
we push ever harder - desperate to find something new;

Words to write or notes to piece together on a
set of strings or keys to show we're here and happy?

A little grain of our forever-doubt to leave behind
after spending lives tracing a question mark;

Weaving a pen around the joy that grows in the
middle of our road to arrive at an empty point.

?