"rebirthing" poems
When I enter,
the black holes of myself,
they are located,
transcribed upon the
blackboards of our
unified bodies,
the magnification of energy
transversed,
principles demonstrated
by the unconcluding
conclusion of the expansion of
creation,
the rebirthing of one universe
never ending
When I enter a woman,
the discovery sought,
the definitional needed,
the proofs equational,
the factors constant,
not the variable
truths,
the demonstrations positive,
the constants of the universe,
combinational, all within,
a single point glistening
to gentle comfort this
knowledge of my wasting,
the foresight of my limitations
from the day of birth
my matter,
matters,
my energy
neither destroyed or created,
illimitable,
my decline inevitable
and yet!
cannot alter my atomic structure.
my future guaranteed,
my inner light,
traveling so fast,
it has yet
to arrive
When I enter a woman,
the laws of physics
become special theories
of relativity,
we are motion in time,
force and energy
nucleotides rawest refined,
elemental and particle nuclear,
packets of light
exclaimed
When I enter a woman,
organic, chemistry,
interdisciplinary
my body and its life force
shaped as
electric current transceivers
crossing galaxies,
there can be no deceivers,
there but and only
the birthing of heat,
a byproduct of
interjection, conjunction
creation of creativity
<>
she is my proof
long after the
log normal of my nerves,
now parceled to the
invisible of an oscillating
log natural,
fertilizes the sea grasses
that so intoxicate,
flying, carried,
by the invisiblity of the winds,
all-where I have chosen
as my shifting shape,
when this container
leaks and crack'd,
in sentry reentry orbit,
to
the nearest garbage strewn
construction-dead
lot
When I enter a woman,
physics far beyond
the commonplace,
physical transition
to knowledge
of life ever after
death and fear are
time sensitized
passing notions,
crushed by the
consolation of physics,
the eternality
of a time
once begun,
cannot end,
and therefore
this,
my one theory of everything,
the God
I worship,
of course,
he is invisible!
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 8:40 AM UTC
Samantha Fox
Was a panther
In a previous life
As well as an ox.
Not to mention
The wife of a
17th century cobbler
On the outskirts
Of Gillingham.
Which is unusual
As those who remember
Past incarnations
Are usually the wives
Of Heads of Nations
Or helped build pyramids.
Actually said Samantha
I forgot to mention
I was also the transistor
In Euclid's protractor.
Can you get anachronisticer?
Oh reincarnation
The rebirthing
Mother of invention.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
at the point of entry (explicit)
it does not strike me strange
at the point of entry
when the heightened senses and the dark subconscious merge
when the lust and the sweat intersect
with ego desire and self is everlasting everything
that the ***** words secretion is sticky on my tongue
when I pant poems born in rawness and tears
on this the last day of the year
and eyes closed see visions extraordinaire
and the Maker whispers in both ears see!
it is the see of what is me,
it is the point of entry and departure,
one and the same,
conception an immaculate mess,
the emptying and the fulfilling, when unkempt promises
are born free flowing and semi-truths transform into
actualities unforeseen and my child cells of new poems
are injected, stored, awaiting the birthright
and the death of publication,
my moment of privileged perfection passes
and frowns and smiles are
one and the same, silken thread wove open and shut
the precision precious circumcising of flesh and soul departing
the utter collapse from within, the drowning in the amniotic,
rebirthing rebutting my denying that I have no more to give
I believe I belong to you for it is what the desire firing cylinders
say repeatedly in the union of the up and the down cycle:
come, come inside me,
I am the pleasure
you are the treasure
in one cup measured
conjoined container
when the point of entry is the point of departure
and with eyes closed from satisfaction and prayer
I see everything all at the same time, uttering:
I am undone utterly and the difference between
the end and the beginning can be seen only
at the millisecond long seven decade coming
point of entry
12/31/17 5:38am dawn dying and new day mourning
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 5:59 AM UTC
for Lori, Riley and Kendrick
the questioning words jump off the page,
into two hands transforming,
words shape shifting into
multicolored ink stained fingers,
now, all a chokehold on my brain,
my throaty gasps rasping from
a simplistic convolution -
single questioning deserving an answer
what are you made of?
the obvious answers left in the slow lane,
bone, tissue, rivers and arteries of blue bloods,
just oil and fuel of a containership,
but the cargo carried, that’s the real stuff
you have insight inside that cannot be seen,
self-survival instincts that morph into morals,
our shared air affects you differently,
a sense of defending, caring,
costless and costliest simultaneously,
spaghetti strands strong sinewed intertwining,
into a better human than most
to call you hero is wrongly insufficient,
but the thesaurus lends me no substitute,
weep, I do,
as the spring and summer blushing green
will not be seen by you at all, and by me,
seen now so differently,
when thinking of
soil-born courage instinctual that has no name,
but grows only in nature
what are you made of?
we know now, but knew not well,
that thing that makes you leap first,
was all you, the entirety of the best,
that exists, existed, as reminders to us,
to mine it, wear it,
medal it upon our fabric
*you three,
breathe it back, exhale it from where ever you are,
that trace chemical odor in our atmosphere,
of life-giving sweetness, a rebirthing chlorophyll freedom
that we humans all desperately need,
even just to know it exists,
and inform us*
what we need to be made of
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 5:43 PM UTC
undefined spine
so close, in lordosis
will gravity win tonight?
swayback
around a fountain
she's curving toward
rebirthing cisterns
about the recesses
of her question mark
(?)
privately electrified
in beautiful confusion
the brain is lost
innately she takes
another drink from my hands
Mar 18, 2023
Mar 18, 2023 at 10:23 PM UTC
I lie here paralytic
Inside this soul
Screaming for you 'til my throat is numb
I wanna break out I need a way out
I don't believe that it's gotta be this way
The worst is the waiting
In this womb I'm suffocating
Feel your presence filling up my lungs with oxygen
I take you in
I've died
Rebirthing now
I wanna live for love wanna live for you and me
Breathe for the first time now
I come alive somehow
Rebirthing now
I wanna live my life wanna give you everything
Breathe for the first time now
I come alive somehow
Right now [X2]
I lie here lifeless
In this cocoon
Shedding my skin cause
I'm ready to
I wanna break out
I found a way out
I don't believe that it's gotta be this way
The worst is the waiting
In this womb I'm suffocating
Feel your presence filling up my lungs with oxygen
I take you in
I've died
Rebirthing now
I wanna live for love wanna live for you and me
Breathe for the first time now
I come alive somehow
Rebirthing now
I Wanna live my life wanna give you everything
Breathe for the first time now
I come alive somehow
(I come alive somehow)
Tell me when I'm gonna live again
Tell me when I'm gonna breathe you in
Tell me when I'm gonna feel inside
Tell me when I'm gonna feel alive
Tell me when I'm gonna live again
Tell me when this fear will end
Tell me when I'm gonna feel inside
Tell me when I'll feel alive
Rebirthing now
I wanna live for love wanna live for you and me
Breathe for the first time now
I come alive somehow
Rebirthing now
I wanna live my life wanna give you everything
Breathe for the first time now
I come alive somehow
(I come alive somehow)
Right now
I come alive somehow
Right now
I come alive somehow
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 3:28 PM UTC
The words float wonderfully across the open meadows of dew,
Transforming after each bounce, every green blade aiding the future tense.
Where is she?
The words sing gleefully as they play in the morning sun greeting the new,
Creating in a birds mind for the angels always have wings, their hearts immense.
We have found her!
How is she?
The words dance around her aura, admiring the warmth of the fog, the breath of two,
Imagining only a walking stick next to foot prints, compassionately using sixth sense.
Well, what do you think?
I quite like the sound of her!
Who is she?
The words visit my throat shakra, my hot blood pumps connecting, trusting in you,
Rebirthing poetic love, Meditating towards the peaceful calming lavender incense.
She reminds of someone I know, or knew...
Wow, does she remind you of tink?
We should all be together!
But will she?
The words kiss me good bye, twinkling in my blue eyes, and I bid them adieu,
Reharnessing my self worth, becoming a readied spirit warrior, taking on the intense.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 9:59 AM UTC
~for my dear, dear friend, T.R.
who tills the soil of Jordan’s Garden,
from which life springs eternal
<>
see your words, sent direct to my ears and all our mutuality of senses,
fingertips tasting the soil, the moisture, the granularity,
the chemical composition and the color, always the colors…
our gardens are our children, each similar but always,
unique, altogether different, altogether similar
how I love the how-work of it; how the soil, you, suckle each other
with nutrients of tears, Georgia heat, outcomes of
the summer produce(s),
a refresher course of memories, of frustrated endlessness
we see heaven only by looking down, you, me, on our hand and knee,
touching each plant by hand as if soft stroking a cheek of our children
in some spots, the ground unyielding, keeping its riches
stored for another day, only then, when it wills, offer up
its specialty - a surprise, a wind-blown in, seed sprouting
it so many different ways, the work gets harder, and yet,
more tender, more desirable and we do not wonder on it
for this the way, of planting, and planning human desires,
tempered by elements over which we relinquish a
sense of control, yet forever knowing, happily, renewal~marked by
the forever and ever on seasonality
of a rebirthing garden
that sustains
us
6/25/23
Jul 2, 2023
Jul 2, 2023 at 8:23 AM UTC
I truly fail to understand
Why it’s gotten out of hand.
It seems so very odd
There are so many God
Is supposed to have ordained
Some aren’t even trained.
There is an absolute dearth
Of an actual true rebirth
In the revivifying blood of Jesus.
It’s almost like allergic sneezes.
Pastures full of pastors.
Priests and beasts.
Defectors and rectors.
Pickers and vicars.
Bleachers full of preachers.
Clerics and hysterics.
Papal delegates and celibates.
Televangelists and Adventists
And hostile Pentecostals.
We are becoming overrun
With an ecumenical kind of fun
In which before we can holler
Another puts on a backward collar
And starts tell us what to do.
When the rebirthing is through
They are on their park soapbox
And ******** about our Xbox;
Telling us what we should watch
And the coffee in our coffee klatch
Is unGodly because Jesus never drank it.
Makes me want to grab and spank it
Before it multiplies. Jerks, those guys.
Pastures full of pastors.
Priests and beasts.
Defectors and rectors.
Pickers and vicars.
Bleachers full of preachers.
Clerics and hysterics.
Papal delegates and celibates.
Televangelists and Adventists
And hostile Pentecostals.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
The cosmic river of placidity our spiritual
Graveyard, laden illuminating the resevoirs
Of the sun serpents mineral kingdoms created
As the desecrated flowers of the
Universe decay,
The barren Earths machinery immortally
Combative rebirthing deaths plague.
Akashas victorious joy reflecting the
Sillohettes of times ardititious travellings
Fleeting, the strength of withered spirits
Collective daydreams upon solacses fallen
Fields of despair, redeeming justices
Patience provocating abeyance.
The irredescent golden amber of an iron
Roses kindling flame; katabolisms landscape
Transcending sunsets incarnate pharisaical
Clouds defying agonising temptations rising
On the wind of sanctimonious whispers
Working the stagnate temper of
Choas' repining heart.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 10:59 AM UTC
*Deep within Sleep
Gleam in the beautiful Dream
Attract the mindful Abstract*
Pleasantries of meadow breezes praising my soft warm skin, Rows of wild green stemmed roses sway silently to zephyr's sonata, colorful floras bless the land with vibrant violets, blues, reds such desirable scenery to take in upon the moonlit Earth, Distant sounds of soft howls barking at the pale blue moon
**Dreaming free__________warmly touched breeze
Vibrant roses__________colorful scene**
**Moonbeams mend__________Earth's dreamt surface
Blessed soft howls__________restful meadow**
**Pleasantry__________pristine dreams flourish
Violets, blues, reds__________Zephyr's song**
As I open my pale blue eyes the land I possess inside dreamscapes, divinely flourishes with deep beauty, The happy sun makes its presence known by sharing its gifts of growth and warmth with the Earth's den, while nature dances with glee at full blooming process, The birds sing their illustrious praiseful songs unto the newborn life that Mother Nature produced for all to share
*Endearing sun
Growing beautiful flowers
Rebirthing nature's bounty*
May 26, 2010
May 26, 2010 at 10:07 AM UTC
~
~ for my knowing friends~
~~~
so simple the notion,
that healing's potent potions
are non-directional portents
coming at you
like a Bob Dylan, Avettt Brothers,
rhythm and rhyme,
tunes injected from the outside knowing,
from the first time
that they were residing inside,
all the time
in, on and under the skin
the conflicted battle rages between the
coursing forces of
I believe
and the low grade infection, incurable return of
faithless disbelief and irreconcilability
a parental entry knowing,
despite different routes of administration,
there is no pharmacology for a limb lost,
any prosthesis healing supplanted
from without,
never achieves
anything approaching next to normal
*but from within,
the heart can heal itself,
trying a natural bypass,
doing its imperfect best
to correct the uncorrectable,
resigned to accept the unacceptable*
the slight edge felt from
cutting a garden's new growth for replanting
an act of belief in the future,
witnessing a sunset's nightly color sky's return rebirthing,
knowing, admitting to oneself,
that miraculously better than all ever seen prior are
medicines that come from the outside,
and inward bound daily injections,
they are:
*"healing, from the inside out...
just as it was meant to be!"*
Nov 26, 2016
Nov 26, 2016 at 10:41 AM UTC
In every drawing, every sketch, every line made with a pencil.
There are pictures hidden.
An emotion left behind.
An imprint.
Every **** at my screen forms a letter, making up the words you are reading now.
And every tap of my fingernail is some sort of song I have in my head.
Everything has a meaning. Even if you don't know it.
A math equation: 17t =.5+14(t+.25)
17 means something to someone. An anniversary.
.25: A quarter. Maybe dinner for a homeless man.
Everything has meaning.
I drew a tree on my page. And that symbolizes the ways I've grown.
Ways I've changed, matured.
And also the beauty and grace of just simply
Standing tall.
Every seam on my dress was designed by someone.
I am wearing an idea.
And that idea could've been someone's pride and joy.
The career they dreamed of and finally achieved.
You never know.
Every stroke of chalk, oil, paint, is an emotion.
I would stab a canvas with a pencil lead thin brush
And it would make a star.
So simple, so beautiful, but what if my head, my heart, my body, was trembling with anger.
Or fear.
Or sadness.
A white rose is beautiful, you'd give it to your lover.
But did you know it symbolizes death?
It's peaceful nature and delicate scent, it's bright light, it's bright color.
It makes me cry every time.
Because somehow, when whoever created that symbol or came up with the idea,
They wanted to die. And they most likely did.
So then, why do people wear black at funerals?
The color is the opposite of death. If you count the white rose.
It symbolizes rebirth.
Living in the hearts of those who actually showed up to mourn you.
While others might have skipped because its just too sad or,
Maybe, they're happy. And they wore yellow that day instead.
Read between the lines. Between the creases.
Between the fingers of someone I used to know,
There were scars.
Who looked at the side of someone's finger?
No one. They were hidden.
She was hurt, but she wore pink.
And her scars were pink as well.
New, like a baby's skin. And what if it was? If it was a baby's skin,
Her way of rebirthing herself into the world and find her new soul,
Her new knowledge?
Read between the lines.
Because she had them in her toes, too.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 10:42 AM UTC
Our Holy Communion of Words
you wrest my words away, with tongue and teeth,
running their sounds out with your soft tonguing,
gentling their enunciated freedom to float airborne,
but not before,
your teeth hone them sharper, wiser, better,
before freeing the letters
for life eternal rebirthing,
swapping, warping words,
into a
a holy communion
then with thy lips closing after them,
wishing them godspeed,
safe travels to yet another’s eye imbibing,
until released once more,
traveling from souls you likely
never to meet, embrace, greet,
but to whom you have formed a
direct intangible tangling,
shared wafered words,
a holy communion
But
yours,
your words,
*gut punch me,
how could you know,
where/\were
you there beside me when in darkened hours
the sun shone brightly, illuminating with bent light
our crevices and our crevasses,
your, words, written,
stun me into crazy, as if
you were within my interior
a cacophony exposed for all to hear,
my grunts & oofs,
visceral, too real, and
my actual tears cascade unfiltered
into the cup of our tangible entangling,
salted & starry*
our holiest communion yet!
~~~~~~~~
Fri Feb 9,
10:00pm~10:30pm
Feb 10, 2024
Feb 10, 2024 at 7:59 AM UTC
Be my lover, my sister, my mother, my friend
you share your vision that I may be nourished
stroking my soul with beauty unending
breathing your joy in continued rebirthing !
Grant me your succor Oh sweet lambent spirit
I bask in this heavenly realm
shaken to life with senses imploding
expanding in earthened delight !
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 10:04 PM UTC
a foreboding
photograph
startles to memory
our war's beginning..
this named entanglement
darkened and dampened
the frivolity
the expected brevity
of our war with ourselves..
a blood soaked becoming
of machinery and death..
the foreground a
cannon on wheels
replicated in the distance
and we assume
again and again..
these engines of conflict
dominate a distant
'tho insistent background..
the sun's
fiery reflection on
an expectant treeline..
coupled with sky
turbulent and echoing
the cannon's
forthright entrance
with purpose unmasked..
this our battle of
separation for reunion
a Manassas pattern
oft repeated through
all of these
our rebirthing years..
flanking and horses
surprise encircling
a wall of stone..
agony and sorrow
the fever of war..
all to reframe
then to restate
our collective.. sacred
I Am...
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 1:30 AM UTC
The turn of Spring aligns this love of mine
a winter glaze of lonely sleet dissolves
and splay the buds towards the golden shine
as snowy drops, her namesake fair evolves.
Each rose with mirrored red have toned her blush
that greeted from the whispered words of love
on petals kiss and hue then spread this crush
rebirthing eyes from out the cold above.
The Tulips worship skies with loving glow
as tho' in stem and reach implants my heart
and rainbow gloss as such that they do know
with all the hope and promised Summer start.
So call love Spring as I have cause to gleam
restoring life that once had none beseem.
Dec 22, 2018
Dec 22, 2018 at 10:13 AM UTC
Sitting in this empty room.
As I watch the shadows creep to the door.
Sitting on my bed I see,
The bits of dust as they fall to the floor.
Its so unreal how time flies by;
When the sun shines in,
All the shadows die.
And by that time, I'm sitting inside.
Waiting for the moon; My time to abide.
But from the light there's always dark.
And from the truth, theres always a lie.
Beyond the shadows there lies a mark,
Hidden by dust from days gone by.
So now you see; Moonlight so dark,
The shadows that creep,
The dust shall part.
An illuminator that fails to reap.
The Dust, The Sand, The Shadows; they sleep.
In the middle of the night,
The sandman comes 'round.
Perfecting infection,
Yet making no sound.
Spraying your eyes,
With his hellish dust,
Rebirthing your nightmares,
Perfecting your lust.
The daylight creeps in,
As I slowly wake.
The nightmares I had,
Were too much to take.
The Sandman had come,
And the Sandman had gone,
And all he had left,
Was the Dust at Dawn.
Jul 26, 2011
Jul 26, 2011 at 6:39 AM UTC
This poem is dedicated to Steve Yocum,
author, poet, and soldier
farmer, father, grandfather,
man exemplar,
whom I honor
and honors me,
with the noblest title in all humankind,
friend.
But above all,
I honor him most,
as a tireless, truthful, harpooner
of the examined and the unexamined life
~~~
*"Be the harpooners of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody, comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders into
crinkly eye-lined smilers."*
~~~
these mine words writ many years past,
dusted off phrasings,
on dusty shelf long lain,
mined from notes,
decades steadily collected by steadily diminishing ears and eyes,
gathered most from self-taught lectures
and self-deceiving dances,
garbed and wearily grabbed
by the addict-strong
observational need,
persistent and perpetual,
to pay off fresh debits,
renewables owed
to the lovely,
to the loopy,
inhabitants who excite and inspire
my so far, rebirthing, youthful,
yearling heart
who provide the special crazy that
justifies existence
just men,
connected by a bond of sonship,
kinship crowning kingship,
blood types as different as an
A is to B
both shall weep in one blood,
I, as I do now,
while midst the nascent commencement of this sonnet,
He, at its commencement,
for a good friendship has no
beginning or end,
but is a circular track,
a loop,
familial by repeated runnings,
yet never, coursed in the exact
same manner or speed
this thought,
this knowledge,
bring a smile to this crinkly eyed composer,
that the metaphysical
will always surpass the binding physics of mortal physical,
that two man,
who have
never met,
race side by side,
not in competition,
but in the mutuality of composition,
each a candle holder,
both writers,
observing the dark illusions,
re-making each into a carrier,
a shedder of light,
each a debt giver and a
debt holder to each other,
hosts to all the loopy,
comfort caressers,
to each other
and to all
who too,
are light-bathed by being in possession
of the title
friend
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC
Among thee, desperation paints
Sallow cheeks and shaking palms
In the temple in which every child
Consecrates a rebirthing, rejoicing Psalm
Are the steadfast oaths of ages past
Belittled with the present ecstatic gestures?
And upon mine, my chest is pounded
In lieu of papyrus padded scriptures
He walks, the offender, through the halls
While burnt offerings are singed with frankincense
And pulls the steeple’s steel bells
In ode to the sorrowful April shower’s Lent
And finally, the King sits upon his throne
Ad clerum, to the clergy, and nods with respect
When eyed, the child burns inside a dress
Whilst he forgot to genuflect
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming age
In which thine beloved empire crumbles
And the voice of fire breathes out like winter breath
In response to those insidious mumbles
In a world where the ox and *** are slain
For charity to make light of a bleary spring
While He still whispers in my conscience
Still exists their soul in everything
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC
"Sketch
-------
In every drawing, every sketch, every line made with a pencil.
There are pictures hidden.
An emotion left behind.
An imprint.
Every **** at my screen forms a letter, making up the words you are reading now.
And every tap of my fingernail is some sort of song I have in my head.
Everything has a meaning. Even if you don't know it.
A math equation: 17t =.5+14(t+.25)
17 means something to someone. An anniversary.
.25: A quarter. Maybe dinner for a homeless man.
Everything has meaning.
I drew a tree on my page. And that symbolizes the ways I've grown.
Ways I've changed, matured.
And also the beauty and grace of just simply
Standing tall.
Every seam on my dress was designed by someone.
I am wearing an idea.
And that idea could've been someone's pride and joy.
The career they dreamed of and finally achieved.
You never know.
Every stroke of chalk, oil, paint, is an emotion.
I would stab a canvas with a pencil lead thin brush
And it would make a star.
So simple, so beautiful, but what if my head, my heart, my body, was trembling with anger.
Or fear.
Or sadness.
A white rose is beautiful, you'd give it to your lover.
But did you know it symbolizes death?
It's peaceful nature and delicate scent, it's bright light, it's bright color.
It makes me cry every time.
Because somehow, when whoever created that symbol or came up with the idea,
They wanted to die. And they most likely did.
So then, why do people wear black at funerals?
The color is the opposite of death. If you count the white rose.
It symbolizes rebirth.
Living in the hearts of those who actually showed up to mourn you.
While others might have skipped because its just too sad or,
Maybe, they're happy. And they wore yellow that day instead.
Read between the lines. Between the creases.
Between the fingers of someone I used to know,
There were scars.
Who looked at the side of someone's finger?
No one. They were hidden.
She was hurt, but she wore pink.
And her scars were pink as well.
New, like a baby's skin. And what if it was? If it was a baby's skin,
Her way of rebirthing herself into the world and find her new soul,
Her new knowledge?
Read between the lines.
Because she had them in her toes, too."
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC
I always thought of spring as a new beginning;
the start of something new or
the rebirthing of the fallen,
like flowers in bloom after the dead, cold winter
It's what you've always wanted—those cold
winter months are nothing but a buffer to you
and I, the unwitting victim, thought I could
ever be enough for you
But I'm no flower, I'm no spring
I'm not a beginning or a rebirth—
I am death, I am winter
I am the end and the endless void
I'm the buffer you only ever wanted to cling to
until the cold subsides, until you can
come back to your old life—
in my wake, there won't be a drop of tear
Nov 1, 2020
Nov 1, 2020 at 11:34 PM UTC
10 miles 'til empty
And I am almost there,
Been driving all night
To get to Nowhere.
Throughout the night
I've been left with my thoughts,
Focusing on the end
So I don't get lost.
5 miles 'til empty
And my journey's almost done.
The new beginning
is on the horizon.
I packed up my life
To see what's in store
Because the old me
Desperately wanted more.
2 miles 'til empty
And my heart is racing fast
Because of my tank
And all that has passed.
Will this life be better?
Will it keep me satisfied?
I will only know
At the end of this ride.
0 miles 'til empty
And I am now here,
Alone in this place
With only my fear.
In this isolation
I realize the truth
That I really did love
the life of my youth.
my heart is empty,
it's all my fault.
my rebirthing journey
has come to a halt.
i don’t want to be here.
i wish i never came.
i want to go back
to when things were the same.
My tank is empty
But my hope is not.
I’ll head straight back
With only my thoughts.
Each step I take
Is one step closer
To getting off
This roller coaster.
10,000 miles ‘til home
And I’m almost there,
I’ll walk through the night
To end this nightmare.
The distance is great
But this first step is a start
In returning back to
The home of my heart.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 7:34 PM UTC