The pain.
It hurts.
It hurts so much.
I've tried every drug,
but the pain doesn't dissipate.

It's been so long
since my mind has been sound.
Since my body had been free;
Free from this defeating pain,
Free from the issues of life,
Free.

It's a bird,
knocking on my window.
Every. Day.
It never goes away,
It'll surely knock tomorrow also.
I need it gone.

There are manacles;
Shackles on my soul.
I would do anything to find the key
and set myself free.
They might never go away;
The chains will constrain me tomorrow.
I need them gone.

The pain.
It hurts.
Like a bird pecking constantly,
Like restraints tying me down,
I've tried it all,
but the pain doesn't dissipate.

But tomorrow I will try
To get all answers asked by time
What is right, and what is mine.
Yes, tomorrow I will fly.

I will turn, and I might burn
All I had to conquer.
Black
Will burn to ashes.
Right
Is to follow your heart.

Don' t tear it apart.
Just push the re-start
And don't look behind.

again and again
  i find myself on this dirt path, s e e
jagged memories and
  missed opportunities zoom past, m e
so i gather my thoughts
  sunsets of yesterdays don't last, w e
clash with tomorrows
  hoping we don't crash, b r e a t h e
although today seems grey
and the sun's a slim chance
again and again
  i put my shades on
  and walk this dirt path.

I don't
See the act of missing
Nostalgia
It takes place in the center
Of expectation
But how can I expect
Anything
If the world lights up
Tomorrow?

I don't believe in tomorrow,
with it's sameness and it's sadness,
and I don't
believe in you,
and I don't believe
in me.

I don't believe in yesterday,
with it's longness and it's mockery,
and I don't
believe in you,
and I don't believe
in me.

I don't believe in the sunrise,
with it's promises and it's storm clouds,
and I don't
believe in you,
and I don't believe
in me.

I don't believe in the sunset,
with it's loveliness and it's loneliness,
and I don't
believe in you,
and I don't believe
in me.

I don't believe in the sea,
with it's indecision and it's vastness,
and I don't
believe in you,
and I don't believe
in me.

I don't believe in the universe,
with it's mystery and it's immensity,
and I don't
believe in you,
and I don't believe
in me.

I don't believe in memories,
with their vagueness and their insistence,
and I don't
believe in you,
and I don't believe
in me.

I don't believe in hope,
with it's randomness and it's deception,
and I don't
believe in you,
and I don't believe
in me.

I don't believe in poetry,
in the lines of my face and of my hand,
in the stars and the gods,
in the guitar and my voice,
in my smile and my frown,
in love, in feelings,
in doors and pictures.

I don't believe in me. I don't,
but they all do. All of them.
And all of them expect answers
and reasons that I cannot give,
that I don't know. I don't know.

I will look at the clock again,
and again, tomorrow. And again
I will notice how late I come,
how old is my love, how old.
And I will look at the clock again
and will leave and you'll stay.
And the sea will also stay and I
will look at the clock again
and you'll stay with the day,
and tomorrow will be today,
and you'll stay and I'll be gone.
But if I'd come earlier I wouldn't
have find you either,
have loved you either,
have need you either.
I wouldn't have what?
I wouldn't need a sword
to cut time in half.

I'll look at the clock again,
and again, tomorrow. And again
he will smile, mockingly.
All the same, I will look.

is so the scared battlefield. The beginning and the ending of the heart. And so saith by the latin tongue, "Bellum se ipsum alet", the war will feed itself. To this war, as lifetimes later to end, these warmen, these courageous maids none like the amazons, have fought wholeheartedly without restraint for the passions they’ve cared for, for love, for sorrow. The sun will shine and roses will flourish again like ever. This new age will bring us utter blissfulness and surely a proper burial for the battlemen.

consider the bee, warbling its bass tune of honey and flora and the pursuit of happiness about the sweet ****** sphere
i do not know how long it (i) has been (will be) here
i wish you would shake me to my core, my past tense boy, pomegranate juice dripping down your chin
i wipe it away with my thumb, sticky with longing
suddenly you are so tall, so far out of reach, so very yesterday and not at all tomorrow
dali was pulled from his dream or perhaps nightmare or perhaps a purgatory of the two
the hair on his arms rose like a spectre from its grave
she who shook him to his core haunted his sleeping moments, threatened to be swallowed whole by the fish
she saw a gun under the bed when she was six and never really felt safe since
danger hides under beds and in closets and in acrylic paint
“how surreal” i’m sure he said, rubbing sleep from his eyes
i bet it made him laugh, too