Never was water more refreshing,
Than when I thought I would die of thirst.
Fire never felt so warm as
The moments before I was burned,
And never looked as beautiful
As before it was consumed.
Light split like memories,
When I look up into the night sky;
Things gone, things refracted,
All that's there that eclipses the eye.
I never knew what it was to be *****,
Acting like I was always clean.
Never knew how wrong I was
Thinking I was always right, ignorantly
Hurting those around me
As they've hurt me.
Stagnant puddle reflecting,
Wading against the stream;
Swimming but drowning

The banality of only craving to capture,
Never to create.
Aperture into life behind the lens
The misery of the photographer
Is always being on the out
And only being a device when let in.
To be an archiver of the moment,
Truly embodying it in a single shot,
Is the greatest achievement;
For cameras can hope

The splices of life, cabled webbing -
Had you everything you ever reasonably need,
And before you the ability to facilitate
The creation of artificial imitation
Near indistinguishable from reality,
Would you venture outside the confines
From control to chaos, and knowledge to mystery?
Or would you just enjoy plastic scenery?

So much to say, which means so little;
So little to say, what that means much.
These ends we face, often,
Come on fast and taper out just as such.
What that remains: naught but thought.
Loose and multiplicitous as strands,
Hair of the artist's brush,
Colors as the richest palette -
Bold & bright, deep & dark

Why I would ever
Knowing it would only
Prove a disaster, & cause only pain.
No sparks to be rekindled,
Only fumes remain of suffocated flames;
As alcohol on water
When all fuel has been spent -
Lamenting the sea

What fresh invention,
Breaking with convention;
To press down with anger,
And drive firm with depression.
Comfort in the arms, of a
Thorny ex. Bathed in attention.
A hopeless obsession- the silenced
Tongue wags,
In this quiet procession.

This is the bottom.
For months, I have felt this hollow tunnel inside of me. It has been the only constant for a while. Like a wind tunnel on fire.  

Steadily I have felt worse in ways I never imagined. Each morning has been harder to get out of bed; I genuinely can't remember a day that didn't start with me bent over the toilet. Yet I stand, shakily. Sometimes covered in ***** - and I clean myself up.
I get in my car. And I drive to work.

I am empty inside. I have no story. I have no melody.
I am untitled.

You may call it Sky.
I call it Blue Breeze.
You may call it Sun.
I call it Zen.
You may call it Rose.
I call it Reason.