Does it ever bother you that pictures can be lies,
how a smile can be faked and nobody will ever realize.
The photos of you that I hang on my walls are starting to feel distant,
I hear a pain in your voice, as if you could break in an instant.
And it's a whole lot easier to burn a picture than it is to burn a memory,
And I was kinda hoping that we would never reach this treachery,
And you're falling under quickly and I can't do a ******* thing,
And I'm writing songs to cope but I don't have the guts to sing.
I think you're better off away from me.
I think you're better off alone.
We're a memory in a jar
never getting full.
But those who think it
is empty and worthless,
do not understand thought.
For it is fluid,
and all liquid
Causing a storm to rain
down on us.
Refreshing what nearly ran dry..
She was the fire fly that I held
in a jar of frailty.
But no matter the temptation
I kept her withheld.
The world that was concussively shallow
without her brightness.
Could I contain the light that was needed,
it gasped at breath
brightly before me.
There was too much oxygen to keep
For when the jar fractured,
her light shined brighter like a super nova
of minimal proportions.
When I let her fly free of her shackles,
woven in the fabric of evanescence.
Life momentarily seemed to mean more than
when it was kept clasped in a jar
of visualised reflection..
And every rising sunrise burnt brighter
as lingering fire flies kept
ignited within the vocal
message that light had rose once again.
People think I'm just
an empty jar
with a lid on it.
But you took the lid off,
and looked underneath
And it said!
"If your reading this
then you know
looks can be deceiving,
I wasn't ever empty,
I just didn't
But you saw underneath the façade.
Drinking tears under the stars
Kissing jar that full of lies
Crawling to the stairway in the sky
Trying so hard to numb every scar
Dreaming the dream so i can fly
Gray, lifeless desk of blank vastness
Reserved for papers scattered
across its cool surface,
Like a disarray of blankets, leaving
unsuspecting feet neglected
Writing utensils yearning to
engage in a race of writing,
Cannot take off from a jar of
Liberated from their incarceration,
I pick up a writing utensil and write
Freedom, at last, to write without the
worry of apoplectic judgement
Writing is conversing with yourself,
No fear of judgement except from
your own doing
Lingering for hours like a tree
that's trying to pull itself
out from the ground
Black coffee envelopes the room
with a smoky touch
Atrocious LED lamp light glares at me
hard enough to hurt my eyes
Dissonance resonates beyond my
window, a border of security from
letting my creative thoughts
wandering too much
Car music blaring with
Doppler Effect (dissonance)
Frustration, more wary than my
stomach growls, signals that
I've been "out-of-it" for too long
Thought that my work
would be appreciated,
Only to get blank stares as lifeless
as the deceased that repose beneath me
(I hope that I've made them happy)
'Tis nothing eccentric about
being a poet, suppose I
i write in SOLITUDE
My eyes are like camera lenses.
Put my numb soul with some love
in a jar of imagination
and poke some holes in the lid
so hopes may breathe
Or when you catch fireflies
hold me in your fist as well
and keep watching
if we are still lightning
Or put me in your eyes with eyeliner
so I may stay close to your dreams
and see myself
if I am there or not
If only I could collect the rain,
Put it in a jar
And take it to God.
Then I would say,
Here, I found your tears,
They made the soil breath.
The quill's sodden ink evaporates
while this bell jar encapsulates
leaving these dreary words to permeate
only to rain back down and stagnate
this terrarium, my lonely estate
pickling eyes that spate
people peer through the glass only to deprecate
while I slowly start to acclimate
two horizons squint until light dissipates
allowing the darkness to overtake
monsters crawl out to dilapidate
snarls and growls devastate
this is fate this is fate this is fate this is fate
is it too late is it too late is it too late is it too late
echos verberate echos verberate echos verberate echos verberate
this is fate and it is too late these echos verberate and I ruminate
I ruminate and ruminate and ruminate and ruminate
with a languid gait
a countenance set straight
while I desperately try to create
a happy blissful sunny green free state
it's not too late it's not too late it's not too late
meditate meditate meditate meditate
don't let the glass alienate
pick up the hammer and swing
till the glass B E K
R A S.