You're hurting. You're hurting bad.
I can see it in your bloodshot eyes
And how you shy away from smiles
Directed at you. Now your once-had
Gleaming spirit dwindles as it tries
To cut its pain with bleak exile.

But blood is pumping through your veins -
Don't change its course with nails or steel.
Our love for you will never fade, though
You ask me what I'd do if somone else took hold your reins
And replaced you, thinking that would make us feel
Happier - without you? Never. No.

I feel anger and frustration because I'm only human,
But nothing on this planet makes me happy like you can.
I love you, you know that. Believe that in yourself.
So stay with me - you'll be with me,
a heart within myself.

I remember the evening
that we sat clinging
to paper cups
of coffee gone cold

over secrets spilled and memories told
two bodies cursed
with hearts grown old

behind your eyes
I found new worlds
A winding road stretched out for miles
to a small cafe at the end of the isle

Sweet pastries filled the mouths
of those who sat beside us
and stayed for a while.

How the hours went by,
people just passing through
The descending sun ending
a forever with you.

believe me when i say
that these scars
are not a reminder of you
believe me, these scars
are a reminder
of how deep my love can be

I broke down and wept yesterday,
at the sight of my grandparents grave.
Clutched dead grass in my trembling hands,
ripped it from the haunted lands.

Every year, it comes and goes,
the days I hoped would never come.
They say it gets easier with time,
though each year, it's another mountain to climb.

But sometimes,
you realize,
it can't get much worse.

Sometimes,
you realize,
it doesn't always hurt.

I leave just like I always do,
struggling to bid them both adieu.
Rolling through the ghostly fields,
I wonder if it's all even real.

Another punch right in the gut,
leaves me fighting to get out of this rut.
Much like every day of my life,
filled with so much anger and strife.

But sometimes,
you realize,
it can't get much worse.

Sometimes,
you realize,
it doesn't always hurt.

And sometimes,
you realize,
it can't get anymore dead in a graveyard,
no matter how many black clouds roll by.
It can't get anymore dead in a graveyard,
no matter how many showers pour down.

It can't get anymore dead in a graveyard.

It can't get anymore dead in a graveyard.

It can't get anymore dead in a graveyard,
no matter how many people die.

.
Snow drifts down
     laying a lawn cold sheet
across the frozen ground,
          creating art reliefs
like acid etching glass,
open space rolling and undulating,
in small hills and depressions,
     bedecked in a veil of white.
The silence is deafening,
quiet having been enjoyed
     and surpassed,
briefly punctuated by the call of a bird,
     A sharp whistle that shrieks
and attacks the silence.
The fresh smell of snowfall wafts up
     as it settles and glistens
in the light of silver moonbeams,
randomly peeping through clouds.
The taste of peace,
                     tranquility,
in the frigid air,
sends imagination soaring
from the desolation of isolation
to another time and place.
          The snow falls,
     falls,
in a relentless race for the ground,
               all is still,
               nothing stirs,
as the moor welcomes its quilt
and sleeps with a cold heart,
     dreaming,
                       of being kissed by the Sun.



© Pagan Paul (28/05/18)