are we running in infinite circles?
is there no escape?
can we become greater from this experience?
or will this always be our shape?

i type away, emotionless, as there isn't much left
but wasn't the goal to numb oneself
protection from this worlds cold theft

we all find peace with things at our own pace
but what if we die before that day
there's nothing but a grim grin upon our face

i guess the point is
to move the **** on
before death comes near
giving you no room to mourn

and hope to find pleasures
in this temporary world
brush off the bad
close your eyes, feel the sunlight and twirl

*s.q.

Death awaits
Beyond the gates,
Of the mortal walls that we call life.
The man that's there,
Gives an empty stare
And carries a heavy scythe.

An abstruse hand he lends
As he tends,
To be generous in this fateful gest.
The lost soul reaver,
The great bereaver
Who delivers your eternal rest.

He steps forward from the shadows
His eyes shine with glee
As he reaches for the soul of the man
Who just departed dearly

Black clad people surround him
The Grim Reaper blends in just right
The dead man's soul walks towards him
He claps his hands with delight

"A new friend to play with!" he thinks
He's really starved for company
All the souls around him just mourn
For the lives they didn't live fully

No one ever thinks of him,
Doing this deary job
All day and night, without complaint
Bearing the hatred of the mob.

Everytime he collects a soul,
He thinks 'this will be one'
To look past his black robes and scythe,
Then he can finally have some fun.  

Bus alas, its seems as though,
It's just not meant to be
The Grim Reaper roams the realms,
Dejected and lonely.

No one realises that
He's just misunderstood
He's neither vicious nor cruel
He's always judged based on his looks

So next time you feel sad and alone,
Multiply that by infinity
Then you'll have a little idea of
How the poor Grim Reaper feels!

I walked alone on the old beaten trail
To go to the place where I now regale
Of a time when we would just set sails
To a fantasy we called our lives.

It was all so perfect, it was all just right
But the fragility of perfection was evident
When the reflection of this drab boring creation
We made was put in the light.

It was all so surreal when the mirror of our so called
Perfect life was shattered and no matter how much you try
you'll never piece it back together.
So I travel through the beaten paths that lie in my head
To the place that is now only a mere fantasy.

Now is not the best time to explain things
I've only just started piecing it together and I'm already growing impatient to let it out.
We all dream, keep your defenses.
It doesn't matter if you can't remember, or you simply choose not to, your mind works while you're asleep whether you want it to or not.
Monks are lying *******.
They dream of more **** women than Hugh Hefner dreads to.
It's a cognitive world within your own. You control its limits, you rule its boundaries... you bend reason. Your very own simulator. A poetic response to your inner turmoil and imbalance. Capable of flow, direction and evaluation. Something to teach you while you're sleeping or entertain you while you're easing.
But more often than not I end up on the dark edges of my mind's shriveling synapses, desperately trying to make sense of the erupting chaos within. A strategic backlash of reality with grim undertones. Void of logic or pertinence to anything even remotely related to my life. Almost senseless.
Dreams are for the innocent. Nightmares are reserved for the wicked, or so my elders said. But when you grow up, your nightmares grow with you becoming darker and bleaker with experience and knowledge that you've consciously or sub consciously gained with age. A cacophony of thought igniting every mental nerve until the shock reels you from your hell.

Lately, my dreams have been lucidly obscure. Irrationally dim.
Two, three, sometimes even seven, one after another. Within the span of a couple of hours my mind is thrashed by the recurrent horrors of imagination. Uncontrolled and violently debilitating, I lie weak and drained in bed every afternoon. There is no mourning in my day. Enveloped by its melancholy I am forced to reset my train of thought. The overture of this madness spits on the spark that would otherwise lighten up a new day. It's become a chore to wake up and lie staring into space trying to recollect reality and separate newly forged memories, that shouldn't even exist, from those that should remain. I'm unsure if my eyes are even closed when I am fighting this sub conscious war. Fever dreams are a walk in the park. This is the real deal. A reverie on acid in the river Styx, and Charon is Jesus.

What follows after the liberation is a mess of things. Disorientation and apathy subtly set in. A million questions with no answers and no one to ask but the mind. A mind who's whim even I myself can't fathom. So my tasteless day is decorated with deja vus I shouldn't feel and nostalgia I can't. If I don't pull myself out sooner than I do, I'd be lost in limbo til dusk. Then in the dark I will find more demons running astray. Some at the bottom of a glass bickering away, some in the crevices of the walls preying on consorts and others in the harsher solitude of unsought company wearing smiles to their dismay.

Whatever be the case, I will ultimately find my way back to the bed and into my head, and once again, this motion picture preview I will dread. Another page from the book of agony will then be read leaving nothing unsaid.