Your blood soaked hands contradict
   your peaceful words
Fields of clover and wheat fed by
   rivers of blood and guts
Seek the individuality you deserve
   Seek no poisoned wells
When your casket is lowered
   nobody remembers why...

Pathetic
Anger and
Irony
Never Noticed,
Floods of tears
Under rivers of
Loneliness,
Longing for
You to drown while

Losing everything
Optimistic and
Suffering through the
Tragedies

It's getting late; the sun is about to set.
The sky indicates with an explosion of orange, white, yellow within a framework of blue.
I have many thoughts that swim in the hollowness of my mind.
The things of past, present and soon to be known future.
I have been a silent petal within a meadow of flowers during the only known part of my life.
My voice, only just heard in the form of soft and violent verses.
Till now I had yet to find my tongue that held a million words.
Till now I have only understood that it shall take the years to come.
Till my concluding breath is to discover all million words.

It's getting late, and I have much to learn.
The world remains in harmonious rotation with the sun.
One single memory, to be memorialised in my brain.
The sun has almost completely sunk to the earth that I am yet to see.
As I watch its last drops of life embrace at the wax coated leaf’s.
Night is near - and along will follow day.

It's getting late, with the glow-worms of the streets awakening.
Casting an ambient light on the wings of silver moths.
Swarming for guidance that shall never lead them to a home of unity.

It's getting late, with the wheels of the bus turning beneath my aching feet.
And the rush of blinding headlights cutting the dark abyss that threatens to consume humanity.
My eyes search beyond cooling glass, for a familiar sight to be seen.
For the cluster of buildings and vines and slow moving roads to once more engrossed in my vision.
And for the scent of mud dirtied water to stimulate my nostrils once more.

It’s getting late, with the hurt for home setting in.
The barrenness of family spoiling my independency.

It’s getting late; the sun has finally set behind the foreign place I leave.
Taking its art from the wall; now vacant for an artist of the night to clam.
With my heart in motion to feel the touch of family that is situated in the small of a town far from here.
My brain sorting through many things I have locked away for long enough.

It's getting late; my life from now shall never be the same.
The present now past; the once future now present.
All the while the time of life never missing a tick nor tock.

It's getting late; and I have finally accepted the person I am.
As I travel back to my home from a short time away; to prepare for the unknown.
To try and understand the future that has been approaching for the length of my life’s thread.

It’s getting late; an artist of night has now claimed the wall, arranging stars so effortlessly to shine upon all.
And I have finally gathered an understanding about the life that is seen as myself...

The zeal of God's Love for our hearts and souls
    cannot be matched or conquered by human willpower;
It can only be rejected by our cursed nature.

Everything is wrong and nothing is right.
Yes,
Everything is wrong.
No way to understand this madness,
Light has become dark and right is left.
Bemoaning, desolate, fractured is my soul;
My spirit.
Understanding and faith have fallen asleep on me,
For my heart is but flesh, crippled by broken glass,
Broken life. Who knows where I dwell?
Whispered hauntings tickle and tease my ears,
Phantoms, shades, spectres, dance before my collapsed eyes... nobody sees, nobody hears, everyone understands but they aren't there.