Set the table
Bring the food
All the menu
Isn't it nice how we sit here?
Isn't it pretty how we are all together for once?
Seems so
But it is not
Missing seats
For members who are not allowed to come
Or won't come because of past mistakes and disagreements
Smile nicely
Help cleaning up
Cheers
Happy Birthday!
Shouldn't it be a nice day?
Well it should
But memories come up all the time
There shouldn't be a moment of piece
You re not allowed to be completely happy
Its a trap like always
Don't be weak
If you manage after all to come home
You can wait for your one
Although he has its priorities
And you will never be part of them
Even its your birthday
Grab a movie
Inspire yourself
Its about you
Not the others
Happy Birthday to yourself

Exhausted Bodies,
Shaky handwriting.
Brain to active to sleep,
Body to drained to move.

This is life.

Work that drains you
To the point of suicide.
Friends that lift you
To the point of feeling heaven.

This is life.

Does everyone feel like this?
Like life is just here to fill you up,
Then tear you down?
To make you feel ecstasy,
Then Death?
To make you think,
No,
To make to you feel that you can move mountains,
Then laugh at you when you fall down from trying?

Do others know this feeling?

Is this really life?

- Blue

Deceiving others is easy
But not a good deed
Deceiving own self is difficult
One who performs
Remains in difficulties all the life

You live through me
And I live through you.
By living through each other,
We live through ourselves, too.

I want to tell you something,
But before I start I want to make one thing very clear;
This isn't a confession.

There was a time when I started helping others
Because I had learned how to help myself first.
There was a time when I stole the sun
Not knowing that something so beautiful could burn me.
There was a time when I pretended I was sick with poetry.
I heaved and convulsed ink out onto countless pages,
And to this day I blame other people for my pain.

But in truth…
I never learned how to help myself.
And it wasn't the sun I stole,
But with the way her eyes shined
It was easy to get the two confused,
And my God did she burn me.
I’m not really sick with poetry either.
These poems are just my muse,
And even if I know it’s not true,
I still blame others for all of my pain.

There are times when I help others
even though I can’t help myself.
There are times when the sun is the last thing I want to see,
Even on my darkest days.
There are times that I get so sick with the idea of poetry.
It’s hard to write something and not fall victim to it.
And there are times that I blame others for my pain,
Even if I’m the one who chose to get hurt by them.

And I want to make one thing very clear,
That even if all of my suffering is my fault,
Even if I’m the one who did this to myself,
I’m the one who picked up the pen.
But this isn't a confession.