Floating in the sea,
Drifting through the wind,
Without a destination.

Some may think it's sad,
But I believe it's freedom.

Those blue eyes
Had a story to tell
From a million cries
Many words fell

It screamed in pain
Asking someone to listen
But all was in vain
It couldn't reach anyone

When the tears stopped
Everything was frozen
And the eyes lost
All emotion.

I'm tired.
Tired of everything.
I just want to sleep,
And never wake up again.

No, I'm not lazy,
I'm not running away from life.
I'm just tired of the world and myself,
And too tired to change anything.

Along these windswept streets
With every gust,
Every step,
Every bone.
Fear of observation
Without contemplation.
Contemplation without creation.

And under the door,
The winter comes.

It is time
To wash out the sickness
From all robes and bedsheets
It comes
In ribbons of bright colours

Red for fresh blood
Purple for nausea
Pink for pain
And sky blue for vertigo

In patterns from a distant land
Where they grow fuit
Under the blistering sun

Figs and peaches
Soft flesh
And sweet cannibalism.

It is time
To slip into oblivion
Between the sheets
That are sticky anew.

I am a ball of plasticine
Shaped by the palms of the world
The cracks smoothed over by loving hands

Then prodded by many fingers
Beaten and moulded

Thrown against the truth
The self is an illusion
So traceable

I am a product of the world
Ever changing
Ever changed

A crowd
Standing
Caught between groud and sky

Time weaves around the steel stairs
And through the golden light

Melting into the colours of the runway

I turn from the static fumes
To see these streaks of shadow and afternoon light



Perhaps it shall be the moment we remember
As we fall from the sky with flames for hair

Or perhaps it shall never cease



I moved without motion
Rising into the light

And saw us standing on the stair
Small and temporary

And so I flew
On the wings of aluminium angels
Into the clouds

And saw
In the blazing light
A non-existent city on the horizon

Pain isn't always sharp and piercing
Sometimes
It is a dull ache
A still knife in your body
One you think is gone until it twists
And fresh pain shoots through every nerve
Raw
Sharp
Forcing you to vividly relive again and again the cause of your pain
You'd think after the 12th time it wouldn't hurt as bad
You would get more used to it
You would start to adjust to it
You would get over it
But every time the knife twists---