Another sunrise and another sunset,
another pair of eyes filled with regret.
Who’s waiting for hope and luck to arrive at their front door,
but even if it came who’s to say they wouldn’t still expect more?
And would we even cast any blame,
if you’re angry that tomorrow came?

Time is cruel and time is no friend;
half were in school; the rest just trying to meet an end.
As a sun will set a newborn life will fade,
with moments you can’t forget
and one’s you would never trade.
Its hard not to feel the same
to be angry that tomorrow came.

He said take a note and give me five
“no one gets out of here alive.”
Who do you want to be for the rest of your life?
“Just a reminder, you don’t live twice.”
They tell me to grin my teeth and bear it
soft demeanor but eyes like a knife.
It’s clear they don’t want me to share it,
my collection of troubles and strife.
They’ve got closed eyes and plugged ears,
talking over each word I try to speak.
While it all feels like endless years,
in truth it’s only been one week.
And the reality of it is actually quite tame
but still you get angry that tomorrow came.

It’s a hazy afternoon with the sun in the sky
and I’m standing in the gloom of someone else’s goodbye.
And I could paint a thousand pictures
and never get the landscape quite right,
just like adjusting and fixing the fixtures
but never obtaining the perfect light.
It seems so insanely mundane,
but I’m trying to not be angry, that tomorrow came.

You can’t cleanse the bad from the good
there will always be residue permanently,
and it’s not so simple to gain some wood
you’re always going to have to cut down a tree, eventually.
Make sure the earth will burn, with an untamed flame
The world continues to turn, regretful that tomorrow came.

Mysterious models.
Manufactured.
By argon-hearted stars.
Nefarious apostles,
have youth fractured.
Why? Ma & Da's gone.
Departed for Mars.

When surroundings & reality,
are surreal.
You're out of body/don't know how to deal.
Because meaningful,
contact is imagined.
Along with,
how you're not taught to feel.

Destiny is caught,
in an optimistic eyeful,
but, held in the hands,
of glimpsed emptiness.
Those hollow fists, will drop,
the future, set insight, to crash.
Lips, look above,
rather, wry-ful.
Unable to face,
myopic unfriendliness.
They're content, to cozy up,
next to a rash;
- stress induced psoriasis -
caused by; a post-traumatic past.

© poormansdreams

The embers of the past,
A lament that stirs my soul.
Time did fly—
Flowers withered,
Seasons shifted,
The last leaf fell,
But I remained.

Pinned to this barren land,
Nailed through my skin,
The wound that never heals,
Bleeding with every thought—
A weight that yearns to move on,
But still, I stay,
Stuck in the echoes of the past.

The illusion of healing,
Just a mirage in the desert of my heart.

Consider this:

to your past, your present,  
or your future self –  
each one perceives their own
reality as their present moment.

you have gained more wisdom
beyond your past self; you will
always feel just a day away from
encountering your future self –  

so cherish the essence of
your present self, for to it,
this moment is their present
moment.

How many times must my life fall apart
I’m lying here in shambles
One day I’ll learn, and guard my heart
This pain I cannot handle

Immutable law: everything changes
But it’s all changing so fast
I try and I try to keep turning pages
But still I’m stuck in the past

This awful book I’m trying to read
Is corrosive to my soul
If I’d shut it, then I’d be freed
I was already whole

I’ll lay my heart down in a cast
And together we will heal at last

Reflecting on the past is hard for me,
I don't really think I made it that far
I think I did pretty great with the task of being a better me,
But you miss the lust of years ago, don't say you don't.
Rather than being a boisterous beast.

You're only statistically better than you used to be.

Staunch, fat, biting gold.

I lay my name through, tooth.  

To ruler engraved crown for crown.

Have a friend shill a coin to the ferryman when I pass away.

Smelling poppies on latent days rubbed drably against misty eyed strangers the made come.

Visions of you, like breaking devaneio at dawn.

Scrolling ordinals under the digital skylight begging God’s credit by the water.

Our round faces pawning tailored passions now read merry of habits.

Now hung loose fit we became the plastic cultists.

It’s all so ******* passe.

If only blood rushed echoes to rest in, ear.

In life we vainly crashed fleets of words abroad of each other's connection.

In attempt to capture by proxy this lacunas.

Slouched about rooms now left empty of the inhabitants whose taste once raided inside them.

Bare it well.

You.

Devaneio.

You.

Casting shade for former particle existence.

Estranged of the salience there beneath the birch limbs uplifted whispers.

Star gazing.

A lame thief I let sleep in my eyes.

Like laundered thought, my fingers playing here a note in banners painted fade.

I wish I could paint it cracked in oil and gouaché.

Wispy slaps past almost ad victoriam.