Once I lived inside the mind of death.
He said to die is a trip.
I said can I go?
He replied can you take it?
I said it’s being with wing’s that gives you things or so it was once said.
The trip, I believe, is real.
For it is now winter and I follow the road of snow.
Since the road, which I go, it is that special trip I’ll always know.
The killers of dreams drowned them in silver streams.
The dreams are covered with lies to ourselves.
I ask where is reality.
They say he’s buried under flowers crying for hours.
Runaways from pain, your road leads to insane.
Death, I said, you are my only freedom.
Why am I not dead?
I have no wings.
I can’t fly.
I should die.
I’ve hurt no one but have been cut many times.
As the story goes, lose her, weep for her, but let her fade away because for her there is no tomorrow. It’s the knife of life I am to borrow   I’ll say goodnight to sight and I’ll close my eyes to cry.
In my heart there is one knife too many.

“Walk this last mile in silence,” he spoke.
“Enjoy your last smoke,” in minutes I awoke.
In time to sleep I fell.
Where am I now?
Feels like hell.
A voice “let no thought be spoken”.
At last the spell was broken by the thunder of a word I heard.
I heard it again and again.
I counted to ten, but to sleep I was once again.
I found myself in a boat with a rope around my throat.
I tried to fly but there was no sky.
I thought for sure I would die.
No reason why.
I reached to touch the water but it was not there.
Then I leaned further and fell.
I kept falling into space.
I was falling so fast as if I was in a race.
But where was I going?
I went without knowing.
As I fell, I wondered where I would land.
It was in a jail cell.
“What am I doing here?” I said.
A man replied, “You are dead.”
I said I cannot die, there is no reason why.
This is just a wild dream.
I tried to awake, but could not.
Like the man said, I was dead.

A new love is like a blooming rose.
You must not use it or abuse it.
You tenderly love and care for it.
It’s a pretty sight, a new love is.
The feeling is refreshing, like spring.
Yes, how it’s a special thing.
Love is laughing and crying.
It’s helping by trying.
Its understanding even when you don’t.
It’s changing when you say you won’t.
Yes it’s changing the way you live and giving when you have no more to give.
Love is even changing your style.
It’s doing crazy things just to see a smile.
Love is a special gift indeed.
Its love when one gets cut and you both bleed.
Love is even the tears we make each other cry.
Love is not wondering why

As I sit and look at the blue skies I see the free birds fly.
Why can’t love and peace be as free?
Free birds fly as captured ones die.
Why not leave their souls alone.
Death is like a rolling stone.
Come one, come they all.
Let all the birds fly free into a peaceful day.
To be free the birds were meant to be, and free they must stay.
And so I pray.

Thinking, knowing, seeing, understanding what must be.
Common sense excepting fate
Explaining reasons for heaven’s gate
Answering questions of how and why.
Hearing thoughts of what is and what has to be as told by the wise, listen well.
The future will bring wisdom to those who try.

Madness, anger, why is it there inside my broken glass
The bottles’ empty and my hurt is still here.
Some say it would relieve the pain, but just another lie.  
The answer seems to be to let me die.
Giving up?
Not really.
Just going to sleep
Maybe this is the sleep I’ll keep.
If I awake, another bottle I’ll take.
Trying to wash my sorrow away from tomorrow
Just wishing it could be gone but knowing it won’t be so I’ll take another drink.
Some say the bottles not the way to get rid of sorrow, but if not the bottle whose knife may I borrow?
At times my life I wish to take, the bottle I wish could break.
But when I try, I cry, I ask why?
What wrong could I have done to deserve this death?
The only thing that comes to mind is being kind.
It’s o.k.
The death that’s been put forth I’ll accept.
The knife was fake, so again the bottle I‘ll take.
Dream, I will of you in my resting place.
My mind is in a clouded space.

While I’m awake late listening to silence, words come to mind not vivid enough to define.
Too final to think about being over this
Soon
At times I can’t tell if it’s a dream but I always awake suddenly.