How childhood hour
Hath been a lasting dream!
And my soul still not waking
To the awaiting dawning beam!

An eternity spent
In shame and sorrow.
So that I could not gaze
Or dwell upon the morrow.

Dreams have been
Nothing more to me,
Than a brazen lie,
And more so a harsh reality.

For in that reality,
There were no hope to be found.
And with that commentary,
I share no common ground.

Though I have been happy
In a time before.
But this emotion
Was only found in dreams.

But in waking life,
I have felt no sadness more.
Nor have seen such light,
That o'er me will beam.

Writing is not a hobby
It's the soul having the opportunity
To speak on It's own.
It's a way of life.
And the more you write,
The more you breathe life
Into a society
That the rest of the world
Has left for dead.

Vivid dreams
Of my lover's screams
In sickness and of plight.
Try as I may
To rid these dreams
I will have them again tonight.
Every morsel of tortured sleep
And each moment of poisoned thought,
I find despair, no comfort there
And no greater anguish my soul has brot

I am alone in the world of naught.
In a place what tends my soul to rot.
A situation of constant moan,
I wish with life, I could atone.
And differences I would set aside
Only then with joy could I abide.
But such wish is beyond my reach
To learn such things
So I might teach.

"You will never fulfill your dream
If you do not finish that book."
I'm tired. I'll work on it more tomorrow.
"What if tomorrow never comes?
Then what?
Do you want the title to become:
'Hank Love's unfinished works'?"

Of course not, but I can't necessarily
Writeif nothing comes to mind.
"That's because you gave up
While you were ahead.
You thought you had
All the time in the world to do it in.
But today's words
Will be tomorrow's reminder."

There's a bench in a park
That I know so well.
And on that bench is a man,
Taking his last few breaths.
Passerby's stop to look at the man,
And feel pity for him,
Yet do not send for an ambulance.
He is wearing clothes
That are not his own.
"God help my poor soul," he cries
On that cruel October night.
And this man,
Whom I've never met before,
Shares with me a kindred spirit
That I have not felt more.
And this place, I only know in dreams,
And his time, was long before mine.
Farewell to the late Mister Poe
And to the dreams you left behind.

Shes looking out the window of her
Two bedroom apartment
Looking down at all
The different faces below
She had a change of heart
And moved into the city
Trying to find the love
She never found at home

But now she's living
A hundred miles an hour it seems
Putting food on the table
And trying to live her dreams

So this is a song for you
From the man across the hall
You never really know
Who you have behind you
Until you've taken the fall

Does it ever get lonely
When you're living for the moment
Does it drive you mad
When you think its only you

I'm always home and I hear
When your tears are flowing
Come and knock on my door
And see things from a different point of view

This great world
Has so many different turns
You've got to cross your bridges
Before they all get burned

So this is a song for you
From the man across the hall
You never really know
Who you have behind you
Until you've taken the fall