There it lays,
my tear soaked
pillow case.

In clouds unseen
where they visit me
every night since thirteen

What am I to do
with no avenue to pursue
when they deny my inhibitions
and tell them they're forgiven?

I see what I can't change and
I can't change what I see

I want to want their vision
of tender, loving, harmony
but it feels like swallowing poison
treating my actions remorsefully.

I take each day
one at a time
unyielding to divulge
what comes to me as I lay
every night
on my tear soaked pillow case.

The cold sense of a
Dreamy deja-vu;
I feel the shadows
Crowd around me
And I’m p
                  u
                     l
                       l
                        e
                          d
Into a familiar darkness.

I roam the dreamscape
In search of an exit.
Although I already know
What lies ahead,
I’m still distressed.

A constant reincarnation
Of the same faceless
Figure, waiting for me
At the end of
My dreaded ascension.

Chilled to my soul,
I face my indistinctive
Nightmare. The ghosts
Of the past seen so alive
From behind closed eyes.

When everything has been said,
What is left to speak, but recurrance in my speach, over and over..
Alike a painting, drawn within a single colour which fades into darkness, as there is nothing left the sweet, majestic ink could cover.
What is the sense for me to write if the message stays the very same?
Verily, I have forgotten the answer for this question a long time ago.
Perhaps it is, but the sign that the message can be conveyed in many possibilities, ways and forms, such as stories what makes them uniqe.
So even if a painting looks all the same at some point or another,
It is still art, brought from the depths of thoughts, from within a heart
A painting is a world of it's own, but so is a poem, or a simple novel.
Because each contains the hopes and wishes, the effort and care of the person, who made it their passion to create a wonderful piece of art.
Return to the same old place, with the same old pace and you might find  joy in what you came to see yet again, before your tired eyes.
Alike an imaginated landscape drawn within your heart, the memories of a happier time might paint you a world in your head.

~ Umi

I've wasted time not kissing you
But that thought is not new.
Your being truly captivates me;
Your lips, your hips,
Your thighs, your eyes.
Lost in a sea of our activity
My mind losing grip on reality
In the face of your intoxicating personality.

I've not wasted time in kissing you.