I think what makes me the most sad is the world doesn't care how good of a person you are.

You can shake hands with all the people who are homeless named Mic, who fondly remember Mel Brooks movies, and you'll still find yourself left behind just like them.

Complimenting women's nails for their sense of style or telling the cashier at the dvd store that his up-sell is really good and it nearly got you with their sense of flow.

You never take their offer of coupons as what's the point on collecting relics of a time we've all already left.

Strong, sturdy, and silent is what the past is made out of, as there is nothing left to break the illusion of today.

Sturdy for no one has found a way to bring all their passion home.

Time can only stand still, and all we can do is move on.

A kindness forgotten: soft words and thoughtful intentions are what make me the most sad.

here I am
dwelling in solitude
with the moon
by my side

i wish i hadn’t let you go as quickly as i did
because
i think you would like me better now
when i tell stories, i don't exaggerate things
and i don’t act like a child
so much has changed
nothing has stayed
but i think that it’s okay
because
i’m not the same girl that you knew when you left
but really, neither are you
i know everything was for the better
but, i just think you’d like me better now

I’ve only known love by its aftermath
and the scars it leaves in other people’s hearts.
I’ve only heard of the tragic tales of loves gone,
and the shells it leaves when it’s said and done.

I’ve only seen the wrecks of passions lost,
littering the ocean in its sprawl.
I’ve only known this second-handed love
that plagues my mind and haunts my soul.

By the way it shapes and governs other people’s lives,
to where the luster has left their eyes.
By the shrieks and aches laying in its wake.
The phantom pain of a severed brain, brought forth by someone else’s name.

I've only known that which I've yet to find.
The elussive ugliness that's all but mine.

There's an ache deep within my heart
An itch that cannot be scratched
Perhaps, a space that cannot be filled in
Currently occupied with anger, confusion, and pain

Nor am I clear on what I'm looking for
But every now and then, the tears do pour in a stupor
...

Is this loneliness?...
But I'm happy alone,
Always been,
happy on my own...
Is this ungratefulness?...
But what is it that is my happiness?...

...

No invitations have been yet sent
It will remain a vacant room, no one to rent
For now and a little bit longer,
... I know,... for sure..
For sure...

As bitter as it is bitter,
let's somehow keep looking for... the better...

The better...
The... better...
?
...