All this angst & gloom
hollowing & hazing up my soul
i will never get free
still, i look
for some non existent
exit
from this living hell.

As the light begins to fade,
Children begin to close their eyes.
We start to see a make believe,
An illusion of the mind.
As we slip into a dream,
We sence something not right.
We quickly wake up to a sight of a dark And gloomy room.
We close our eyes just one more time.
We think all night and to our suprise,
A dream is life in disguise.

when my hair gets windswept
and the sky is blue
and the secrets are still kept
i will remember you

when all i have left of you
are these polaroid pictures
i won't feel so gloom
and i'll continue to capture

moments that only we share
to keep me from my despair

to keep me from forgetting you

They say it's darkest before dawn,
    dusky gloom met its match in your shadow
          unreality swears by your delusions,
       compounded in fear of disclosure
              that light at the end of oblivion
                  took revolution's number nine train

It’s the year of gloom and the day’s morbid

Never morning enough, clouds – they forbid

The mood is on the brink – of an imprecise dawn

Chugging on like a mundane mover in lawn

Sanity is in the black – grief is at peak.

All is fine with the world – not but with me.

My low spirits welcome me mostly at night because they're proud nocturnal too. They love their state of insomnia to an extent where they start harnessing the hyperbole of nightly enthusiasm. They enjoy the perks of insomnia too much. They don't even allow me to peek through the orifice of their so-called exuberance. They don't want me to interfere in their matters so they just kick me out. They just want my body to dangle so they can play with my soul but I don't let them dangle so they yell, yell, yell and yell. When I ask them the reason of their worthless yelling, they yell more. :I

There, amongst the northern skies,
Tears driven by ghostly squalls to
Fall on the blackened, bleak rooftops
Of this northern town, forgotten.
Left to a grey Victorian rot
Decaying factory ceilings collapsing on,
Litter strewn floors, newspapers decompose
With triumphs from yester year
Industrial dust stained brickwork
Grimy reminder, of the grim past
Haunted dim gaslight probing the fog
Days, nights only separated by murky light
A ghostly silence, hangs like a grimy fog
Cloaking lost sounds of dull beating on metal,
Boots tramping over cobbled stones,
The sounds of clocking on, clocking off, no more