To know what
Of things condemned
Are needed,

To know that they
Know you know
Of their need,

Without words
Hesitation or remorse
To act,

To be
In totality
Together

Life is pain.
But I wouldn't say
I've always felt this way.
Pain is a cruel and hateful teacher,
Demanding I fight for each and every breath.
I'm grateful towards death,
That it will all end at some point.
It's a ******* shame
That life has no real reason or aim.
What a peculiar thing

On a bed in fair mid-May,
Away from school, work, and play,
Lie a young boy devoid of joy,
Trying to break away.

It wrestled, fought, and struggled,
But fatal aims redoubled,
His iron will held them stock-still,
Neither could break away.

Motions were slow and fleeting,
Instinct and Will competing,
To end two pains in different veins,
Crumble and break away.

Strangling a blind reflection,
White-knuckling throats mid-section,
With fratricide, a part had died,
What's left to break away.

Downtown a young man stood tall,
Behind eyes, perturbing pall,
Lie a young boy devoid of joy,
Trying to break away.

On I walk a winding road
choked by thicket on both sides,
A lonesome path seldom strolled
but for a raven eyed

Sky dyes to red,
plagued by smothered light
The Vagrant seems to emanate
never within sight,
He follows in my gait
as fright blooms into night,...

On we walk the winding road
feet fall stride for stride,
The Ravens cries do not bode
well of what will betide
The Wanderer begins to goad
a creeping suicide,

It matters not, what cycles rot
nor incubus I sheath,
His laughters in my very thoughts
The echoes raze beneath

On I walk the winding road
Only one, I stand
The Raven flies overhead
we walk it hand in hand

I want to experience the world
But I don't want the world to see me,
I don't want to touch it,

I want to know the whole of the world
and the whole world to know of me,
Without it really knowing me at all,

I want to have it
without it being had,
And love it,
Though I'm in denial that it could feel so
Or I could be

I can't write a word
Or even pickup a pen
I wish I had hands

It's the still nights, the stormy nights
When I want a cigarette
To spark life in my breath,
When sleep seems dead set
On avoiding me.
It leaves me asking why?
I don't even smoke.