Who should argue
That time has stopped for the dead
For them, there is no tomorrow
No today, no yesterday
No time
Yet they live on in our world,
In our imaginations
In our dreams
In our hopes

Who should argue
That time never stops
We still live on with the dead
They're history to us
We learn about them as a factor of time
No real appreciation of what they once were
We simply progress
Repress
Abandon
Forget
But for the dead, there is no tomorrow
We can only mourn and remember until we can't
Or until we too, are part of the dead
Then we'll realize that
There is no tomorrow.

Don't keep it in.
Open your wound.
Let it bleed.
Feel the pain.
Cry it out.
Feel all the hurt
today.
So tomorrow; you
won't.

-HIY

And I’m still not sure how I would’ve better inveigled your affection:
If I would’ve been a little less like me
Or if I would’ve been a little more like him

And I’m certainly sure I could’ve come to a perfunctory conclusion by now if I were dealing with a dichotomy
But some things just aren’t that simple
And I guess if romance were rudimentary, I wouldn’t have spent my life whole life searching

And I sure would love to wonder why it’s inevitable that everyone who pronounces their attraction to me for my personality ends up leaving me in the dust for a cheap doppelgänger
But in order for me to wonder, I’d have to truly believe that my personality beckoned attraction..
Perhaps my insecurities have been the silent assailant of my dreams all along

I’m sure I could learn how to be strong and love myself
I’m sure that if I embraced rejection I could find someone who would give me a real chance
But I just don’t have that kind of strength in me today
And when every day is the same **** struggle, I really don’t know if I’ll ever truly have any “tomorrows”

**** the future
The present has me tense
The past is post present
Today is tomorrow
And yesterday is yesterday

When I venture eyes slightly glazed
           at that ****** light permeating
my room like an unwanted guest
                               knocking at my door
at 8:00am in the shock treatment of my
                                    
                                               awakening.


But still versing hymens of my woeful
                                   acknowledgement.
Covering ones self like a concrete tomb.
                  covering light with plasters
of inconvenience, hiding the cuts of awakening.

I will slumber, entombed beneath shallow blankets.
                          Never arising
                           to the wants of another day.
Clinging to the beauty of darkness,
                               I awaken to the reality of another day.