Isn't it strange,
How the people who keep you alive;
The people who make life worth living,
Are the very same people who will drive you to the edge?

//I used to think loving you was a distraction from the anxiety and the sadness,
But I guess loving you was the very source from where that sadness and anxiety came from.//

Sometimes
I just lay in bed
Wrapped in blankets
Wishing my heart was warmer
Brighter, easier to care about
The dreamer in me is dying
There is no magic strong enough
To dispel this despair
As small rivulets of hope leak out
Each drop a tiny crystal wish
That will never come true

If there is no point
Then
Perhaps
I will take
The meandering path
And
Perhaps
I will double back
To the gray matter house
Despite how far I made it
Today
Yesterday
A month ago
A year ago
I always come back
Perhaps
I will stay there
This time
Make it home
Quietly waste away
As energy leaks out
And effort is exhausted
Time flies by
And I will sleep
To my tired heart's content.

Words are all that I have now.
My possessions.
Keepsakes.
Somehow just melded into the backdrop.
Almost to tease at how I can not touch them anymore.
Connections and romances that sputtered and died out.
Seem less painful now.
But its hard to say when this numbing reality takes hold.
Things used to be..
Exciting.
And With each year under the belt.
The world becomes less enticing.
Shrinking the grand dream into a childish fairytale.
One that doesn't end with Happily Ever After.
But with Fin.
Its almost Ironic.
Spending ever waking moment trying to please people.
Doesn't equal a happy soul.
But making the self happy that isn't diluted with every single alteration society provides.
Well.
I have yet to see what peace is and I don't believe it takes bombs to prove a point.
In conversations or otherwise.
A slap in the face can turn heads and fracture minds.
Maybe I need to revisit myself.
Sadly there are doors even I can not open.
Nor perceive.
When all that I am.
and will be.
Is wasted on words.

At midnight I stare out our window.
I see lights out into the far distance.
They are colorful and breathtaking,
But surrounding them is the darkness.

At 1:00 a.m. I look at our unmade bed
Sheets of pale white that are unblemished
Our innocence it mirrors back to us.
Oh what a beautiful mess it could be.

At 2:00 a.m. I see steam float around me.
Is it your shower, or the fog that follows us?
You know why we're here in this place,
The stationary bible with a film of dust.

At 3:00 a.m. I listen to your voice.
It's like a never ending echo in my mind.
I hear the truth screaming inside you,
But I can see that you will still refrain.

At 4:00 a.m. I close my eyes on today.
You are gone chasing another high
But really you're too scared of yourself.
So alone in room 93, I shall stay once more.

the days of nazereth,
or the present
times in labarynth
feeding the people with beams
of light is only in vain when they are
wetting their own appetites,
not applying any of it into
their own lives,
singing hymns in church halls
only to go home and tell their
children a black man is not a
human at all,
inviting all who seek a new life
only to cast their foolish eyes
on a hopeless child who comes
inside, judging her past actions;
labelling her a ***** as she
questions if there is even
a god - and if there is - why believe
in one that harbours
disciples who would display such
a reaction

- t.m

The clock is ticking,
Bon Iver playing in the background,
Every note dragging her in deeper.

She's sitting on the sofa;
Shoulders hunched,
Tugging at the sleeves of her jumper,
Wine glass in one hand,
The other wiping away her tears as they fall.  

She wonders if she'll ever get over this;
This feeling of hopelessness ripping her to shreds,
She wonders if she'll ever make it out alive,
Without you by her side.

She is okay.
She wakes up every afternoon well rested,
Late,
From last night.
The day is shorter,
It's 2pm and she hasn't looked at herself in the mirror,
But she knows how she looks.
She uses no make up,
But her eyes are black and baggy,
She showers everyday,
But she always smells like salt and wet cotton,
She doesn't suffer from migraines,
But her head is always pounding,
Always hurting.
She never uses her phone,
Just at night,
To pull out a picture which she lays by her side,
So she can cry all night,
Late, late at night,
Because all she uses to rely,
Is a digital photo of the guy she never said "I love you" to.
So she cries all night,
And sleeps all day,
Wakes up by noon,
And repeat her mistake.

/I Didn't Say "I Love you"/ SNS
August 4th, 2016
4:08pm