What bad could happen to a boy of sixteen, walking through the woods trying to find a nice spot to smoke and read Slaughterhouse-Five?
But now that I'm thinking about it, Stephen King may or may not have written a book about this exact question, more or less.
And as everyone who has read The Gunslinger Volume Six: Song of Sussanah, knows, everything Stephen King writes happens. Stephen King is God, in this sense.
Nevertheless, I found a nice spot, next to a dried out creek bed, complete with a gallon bucket and the scent of lavender.
And so I sat, and rolled a couple cigarettes, and dove into the mind and time traveling of Billy Pilgrim.

Sitting there, on that bucket, old Kurt spoke to me.
The previous owner of this copy of Slaughterhouse-Five also spoke to me.
With highlights and underlines he allowed me into his mind and thought processes while reading this book.
He underlined every passage that had to do with the Tralfamadorians views on time and the coexistence of every moment.

Soon, it became dark and I could no longer read, having only one cigarette left, I headed home.
Fifteen minutes later I was home, and if Stephen King had written about this event he wrote it as it happened. With no harm and no foul.
And maybe I dislike him for that
and maybe I don't understand why he did that,
why he would wrote a boring tale of a boring boy going on a boring walk in some boring Northern California forest.
And this writing does not feel complete but the Pabst is starting to kick in so I think I'll leave this one alone for now.
And Stephen King **** it, I can't even think of a title for this *******.
Nevermind, I got it.

You were the greatest neuronal reorganization to ever happen,
of course I don't know who I am anymore.

What was plastic seems changed to stone in a gargoyle brain and beneath a microscope the shimmering glia spell out your name over and over in little green lights, fossilizing the neurons that say:

Him.

The earth has an edge. Nobody wants to fall off.

So call me Homer, because the gods themselves could not convince me my situation's a sphere there's far too much fear in this flattened plane that understands only primitive desires and just wants you near.

Everyone knows the romanced brain could be mistaken for a ******* addict's.

But perhaps if you look more closely into my eyes you will see my irises have turned stormy, that cyclones of energy are becoming patterns that scribble and scribble arcane suggestions for a new cartography. A new story. A new being.

Supplies needed:
One strong pencil.
Enough oxytocin to unlearn an addiction.

Enough optimism to overcome an affliction, my diction is code for the way you kissed me and it underlines every sentence like the way a voice rises when asking a question.

I have so many questions.

And even though the notion of who I will be when I am not you terrifies me, like Cathy and Heathcliff I will not be doomed to roam the moors, already I know there's endlessly more, and with or without you the best is yet to come. Just as they say. No, I don't know what's in store. But I think that's okay.

Turn golden, Grey Matter, light up 'til you burn.

Reboot.
Restart.
Rewire.

*Relearn.

Many will try to break you
shake your very foundations
degrade you
reshape you
displace you
The instinct to **** thrives in every mans will
A shrilling reality underlines every fatality
and evey empty shell
condemned to hell
When you're bitten do you bite?
Do you hunt your prey in the night?
Power playing the doe eyes lost in the headlights
Ending them with excellerating spite
For the sake of the fight or the game?
Isnt it all the same?
There's nothing here to gain
We're all dead in the eyes of fate
We either **** or self distruct
No matter what end of this spectrum your on
You have your enemies and allies
eating it up
It's disturbing as **** but we watch it live
we live it
we breathe it
colonise
A seducing feature in everyones eyes
We must admit most of us crave the dark side

Every three seconds someone in the world is diagnosed with dementia, that works out as 9.9 million new cases of dementia world wide each and every year. In 2017 the number of sufferers was said to be just under 50 million, this number is set to almost double every 20 years.

I am walking for a world where people do not have to live in fear of losing themselves before they lose their lives. Where the only wandering that takes place is not up and down corridors, in streets, or in care homes but is that wonder of what life was like for those that suffered. Where the only reason that questions are asked is because people don't have to experience what it's like to have to lose a loved one to this disease. Where hands can feed their own mouths, where brains don't shut down, where people recognise the sound of their own voice, their reflection, where mirrors don't scream rejection.

I am walking for a time when people have a sense of time, of the date, of the year, where they don't live in fear of a diagnosis that stamps them with an expiration date, that defines and underlines the heavy hearted fate they are yet to await.

Where the only memories lost are the memory loss of what these symptoms and statistics sound like.
Where the only thing misplaced is the difficulties faced, because no one has to endure this illness anymore.
I am walking for a world without dementia.

Any and all donations welcome.

Thank you.

https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/mw266787

but always with the pieces.
Piles of information
from conversations dating back
to the spring of '91.

Pieces;
like they're a thought that stands alone.
Pieces;
it suggests that everything will be pieced back
together.
Pieces;
this is how I remember it now.

My records are
Highlights and underlines
and low lights.  
Sometimes no lights.  
Everything in shorthand, the shortest hand
shorter than a flea circus stands above the ground.

I have kept a professional record of every conversation
and I have been the opposite of professional.
An Anti-professional.
The original Anti-thought.
Anti-Anti-Anxiety.Anti-Matter Inflamatory.
The Anti-Gravity Example.
Unable to keep the track from bending.

                  And always derailed by these unneeded poetics,
                 dressing up the few and far
                  spaces as ghosts between worlds,
                 or something mundane as impossibly important.
               I'm losing track of time, shoving metaphors in envelopes
                I'm some ******* who thinks art is everywhere

Hands
calloused and strong lift my veil, carry me over the threshold
Turn shadows into birds when wings falter, cup round the flame biting my cigarette
Tilt my face to share a sweet kiss, rest gently against blushing cheeks
Shelter from the cold, warm me in and out and in and...
Flip through musty book pages done up with dog ears and underlines
Brush curls from his face, sweep sweet sweat from his brow
In the dirt transfer love to the life created within it

i pity words
because words try
they try to communicate in the most intimate way possible
having all these different words pertaining to different degrees of emotions, feelings.
And by having different genres,
like being descriptive, scientific, or conversational,
but it’s always unto the ability of two people:
the conveyor,
if the words would come off strong, or strong enough
or nonchalant, or nonchalant enough
and
the receptor,
if the words are to be processed, understood, wholeheartedly
or to come in one way and out the other
and it’s always different.

you see,
words try, but they’re a medium,
and there are other avenues of expressing ones emotions,
those of which are underlying,
which can’t be articulated.
when you speak words,
it contains tone, diction, and emphasis,
which printed words try to mimic
by various styles like
italics, bold, or underlines,
but they can never quite imitate
shifting eyes, twitches
the waver in your voice, it’s depth,
you, running your hand through your hair,
or having fidgety fingers,
and your legs never seem to stop shaking.
All of this steals the spotlight off of words,
and I wonder, what do all of these things mean?

The frontiers meet in the flow of time. In the calmness do the fabrics of the realms intertwine. Like a thread of lace, like life, an aesthetic tapestry is woven. The masterpiece intricately crafted, with such a gentle touch.

Though within the weavings, something's revealed. A perfection of symmetry, like a mirror, underlines these expressions. As if like the stones at the base of a river, are these expressions of symmetry the base of this tapestry - a desire etched in.

The gentle craftsman, with a stern yet gentle movement of his hand. As simple as taking a breath, does his work take form. The life within the lace vibrant in expectations, crafting a genesis exerting extravegance.

The tapestry draws nearer to completion, it being embroided into the waters of time. Each strand of fabric, being woven with purpose. Encapsulating the forms in the thought of the master of craft.

A great expression of joy radiates through the craftsman's smile. Engineering such magnificence to a maturity. This tapestry, framed within an everlasting water, an awe-inspiring sight. Radiance fashioned in the glistening of the eyes of the realms.

The way she underlines
her favorite parts in this book
says more than words could.

She never draws straight,
but scribbles little lines
that connect the syllables
in the same way
she etches her little things
one by one, piece by piece
into something worth reading.

I want to highlight
each beautiful characteristic,
underline with sharpie
so her imprint is permanent,
write notes in the margin
to ensure I never forget.

*m.w.

The Greatest Thing happened while the
                                                   First of your kind was sleeping

The empowerment of women movement got it wrong to me they slant truth against themselves
Power yes the measuring in social justice but not in truth as to true worth honor and dignity the

World would be a strange and different place first man left to himself would have no future yes
Paradise was his home but a mansion that you only roam through empty rooms lays flat in the

Heart and dulls life not enhances it so on this wise a great dream came true Adam awoke and
Found the dream had come to life and at that time of perfection they were perfectly equal as a

Team the man leads the woman’s role is to follow but in the most supreme idea of servitude you
Can’t escape the whole equation of life underlines serve others the Holy lamb came as a servant

We only find our true selves when we deny ourselves and give unto others but to do so is to
Swim against the current because when Adam and Eve departed from the garden self was

Enthroned as king no longer was it rule by cooperation now the beast mentality from the garden
To the jungle women became overshadowed and the theme of her natural equality was forever

Ended but only a mental pigmy can’t see the inherit brilliance that exists it was the fast track
To second class persons how neat create a mindset that is collectively bent to mans favor and

Women gets what’s left oh how precious just two things God made them as first with man not
As an afterthought and then this really messes up the male dominate show it seems they have

Brains sorry guys it’s not a cheap imitation it’s the same as the one you have and you know
When they apply it and work at it they can pass you up it is quickly questioned and is passed

Off as just a fluke there again if stupidity was the common rule it would work but little
Argument is needed for the obvious her glory reverberates throughout history achievements

Varied as the flowers and as magnificent in her truly the sun does rise and set or more correctly
Sons and daughters rise through her maternal gifts that endow us throughout the world in Arabia

They point fingers everywhere for their failures stop and look behind where you make your prize
And gift exist they have in their history great minds that made them a great people but when they

Dehumanize half of their population and make them live on the stringent edge of society they get
Even less than half of life’s fulfillment you can’t be that arrogant and be blessed ever enterprise
Known to man owes its success to women even God’s great works would be diminished or non

Existent if lone women hadn’t paid the price and through their love and devotion we have a
World as we know it God help us if we didn’t have them

Crossroads may break ties
Or patch hearts

And as we go our separate ways
When shall we meet again?
With nothing but a map in our palms
And eagerness in our hearts
The time that passes with each passing
Is slow to end though quick to start

Half-world travellers
And wanderlust
Will we still carry
The same old dust?
The stains that plague us
Though we abhor them
Against our own will
Define us

Laughter lines
Italicised
And bolded underlines
Slowly time affixes its mark on us
And the creases make a path

Even then as days of past
Will spirit still be stayed?
When we endeavour to change our paths
Will we find our way back home?

The light is on
As always is
And hope is keeping vigil
Some shall never return
And even if they do
Things change
And feelings pass

The glory days
Have come and passed
And we will never be
As golden as we were
Time can never bring us back
To remedy our wreck

Can we ever move forth
With the lingering longing for the past
To relive days of serendipity
And to find the people we lost along the way
That only begged us to stay

Bravest is the soul
Who can master the tides of past and present
And forge on with nostalgia at the back pushing
While running into the imminent unknown

Perhaps transience is inevitable
But so shall transcendence be
Happiest are the souls
Who are full of hope and vigour

And though crossroads they break apart
Perhaps we'll meet elsewhere afar

Oh crucified Messiah!
You walk along
The Messi street
Here in Kozhikode playgrounds,
Alone,
Head hung.

You used to write poetry
With your foot
In the green field.
Green pens of press rooms.
How swiftly did they
Turn to red underlines.
—————

I am writing to you
From this land
Where poets will
Always get red card in
Playgrounds of poetry.

You should get down at Kozhikode one day.
I shall introduce you to
MoyduVanimel,
A journalist as old as Kozhikode.

We should roam all around Kozhikode
With him.
We should listen to Vanimel tales,
Sipping hot tea,
At Malapparambu, Puthiyara and Kallayi,
Everywhere that remained under
The spell of your foot.
—————

There is a mosque cemetry
Full of Meezan stones
By the beach.

Tombs
Tattooed with
Foot poetry
By many souls
Who died
Many deaths
In the playground.

You can see,
From your flight itself,
Those Henna trees
That lean towards these tombs
And nod lazily in drizzle.

There,
I shall kneel down
And repeat
The Liturgy for the Losers,
For You.

He reaches for the door to enter the cafe
Right as he does, a woman on the other end shoves it open, nearly hitting him in the face
She manages to mutter a half-assed apology and strides by him
She smelled like cigarettes
He walks in and looks around for a trash can
As he goes to throw something away he sees a book on top of the pile of garbage
He picks it up and wipes the ashes off of its tattered cover
With a nod to the waitress he walks over and takes a seat at the only empty table
The seat is warm
He examines the book, turning it side to side
There is no title
There is no author
He shrugs and opens it to a page with the top right corner bent inward
In the center of the page his eyes are drawn to a word circled angrily in black ink
Patience
He takes out a red pen from his shirt pocket and underlines the word
I need to learn how to be more patient
His thoughts go off about the woman who had brushed past him
Was this her book?
He looks out the window to see her standing at the bus stop across the street
She turns her head in his direction and they make eye contact
"Is there anything I can get for you, sir? Perhaps a cup of coffee."
He hesitantly looks away from the woman and up at the waitress
She gives a concerned, but friendly smile
"Erm, no. I was just leaving."
He picks up his hat from the table and leaves with the book tucked under his arm

Look past the seeming errors
Mistakes and misunderstandings
And see only the love within
Give this your resolute focus

Love underlines every situation
Healing in undreamed of ways
Love switches on the light
To diminish previous darkness

Each thought is an investment
That pays immediate dividends
Align with peace love and harmony
To a more loving vantage point

Affirm all that your heart desires
And forget of what you fear
Look past the personalities of others
And see their pure angels within

There is a delusion of perfection blocking the gates between us
Your self destructive outlook underlines  the inadeqacies I tried so desperately to deflect
With humor or sarcasm or impulsive unecessary habits
Hindering me
Entangling me into another dysfunctional abyss I cannot deny
These shattered hearts heal with unsolicited *** scandals whispered by the tounges of cowards
Piddling their intoxicated paddles with reruns of last years season highlights
It's all the same and we became complacent
Unmotivated by the unmet expectations of our nemesis
Our image isn't mirrored by that of what we strive we are lost in a maze of who is good, better, richer glory
Success is based on luck and come ups meanwhile
We are drained with greed and jealousy and entitlements holding one another in a ship wreck
dangling by a measly line off our last second chance
I knew you'd take me back
Even if we sink together

I have shown my words
the folded edges of my book
the accidental rips
the mindful confusing to all annotations
the highlighted quotes
the underlines
the arrows
the connections.

I have shown my mind
the unhealthy parts
the mistakes
the mindful confusing to all thoughts
the highlighted memories
the underlying reasons
the why's the who's
the connections.

I have shown my art
the wrinkled pages in my sketchpad
the cross outs
the mindful confusing to all compositions
the highlights and shadows
the underlying feelings
the what's and why's
the connections.

I have shown my book,
I have shown myself.

It seems to be a clear matter
of identifying a name or a place,
on the page, where the photo can
be typed, a title in blue, that
underlines, pulls itself through
the spindle to call the image forth.

It, then, occurs to the watcher that
everything has changed, and the
other scene cannot be found.  The
blighted, slighted mind that worries
and goes looking on and onward
sometimes finds its way, again.
There is no better course than to ask
a confused friend.  Advice leads the
wanderer back to a home where
people are on the same page.

I like to leave my mark on my books.
I've gotten into the habit, as of late, that when my books are tangible
With pages and dog-ears and tears,
And little coffee stains and broken bindings,
That they also hold something else of me.
When I stopped writing my story,
I started scrawling responses to theirs
Everyone else's
In my books
Novels and poetry
Are scribbled with underlines and little comments,
Agreeing or acquiescing,
Rebutting or rebuking
Some author or character to whom I feel a particular connection.
I like to leave a bit of myself in my books
So that they might be no one else's
Not ever.
Compelled by feeling,
I scrawl my heart on the pages of my books
And make us the same.

I read a lot of poems about other people's mothers
And wish they were about mine.
But you see,
My mother hates poetry.
She doesn't understand it.
She doesn't understand how the words
Bend around my lips,
How pen plucks the cello strings of my throat
And plays truth like a song.
She doesn't understand the papery wings
That erupt from my shoulders
When metaphors are all I have.

But you see,
My mother loves words.
My mother taught me
To always carry a book with me.
Because of her
My handbag is a mess of
highlighted verses and underlines chapters.
Because of her
I know how to watch my tongue.

My mother never went into detail about her childhood.
At least not around me.
But every once in awhile
I'll catch her recounting a story of her mother.
Her mother who smoked cigarettes
And set a place for Jesus at Christmas dinner.

My mother knows when to fight
And when to keep silent.
That is one trait I didn't inherit.
I am stubborn like my father,
fiery and temperamental like my father.
But I will always have a heart like my mother.
Always be wrapped in an empathy
So tight that its easy to forget
Sometimes we can't breathe for everyone
And sometimes we need to breathe for ourselves.

Every Christmas Eve and Easter
I go to church with my mother.
Now, I am not a religious person.
I stopped believing in this god the day I learned
Abraham almost killed Issac,
Moses was never pure from the beginning,
And Eve did nothing but share,
But my mother loves Jesus.
When I was 15 my mother read the bible.
When I was 15 I needed her psalms most.

Whenever we're in the car together
She leans over and pokes my thigh.
When I roll my eyes she says
"Some day you will miss this"
And I can't help thinking she's right.

My father fancies himself  comedian.
So every night at dinner
When he launches into his act
My mother and I speak through our eyes.
Our eyes that are not unlike matching puzzle pieces.
My mother and I have our own language.

I'm writing this poem for my mother
Even though she hates poetry.
Hates the way I strip bear,
The way I open my ribcage for people I've never met.
Hates the way my similes only make sense
If you squint your eyes
And tilt your head to the right.
But you see my mother loves words
And my mother loves me.

Everyone needs
Everyone wants
Everyone dreams
Everyone feels
Everyone fears
But does everyone really love?

I know that I can love
I know my needs
I know I have fears
I know my wants
I don't always know how I or everyone feels
I know I have dreams

You tell me all of your dreams
You tell me of your love
You tell me how you feel
You tell me all your needs
You tell me all your wants
You tell me all your fears

I want to forget my fears
I want to live all of my dreams
I know not every girl gets what she wants
I want to spread and share all of my love
I want to meet all of my needs
More than anything I want to feel

Tell me how you feel
Can I help you forget your fears?
Am I one of your needs?
Who is in your dreams?
Who is it that you love?
Am I, is this what you really want?

You are what I want
I want to know how you really feel
I think you are who I love
Your rejection is one of my biggest fears
Happiness underlines all of my dreams
This is all I need

What you don't want is what I fear
How I want you to feel is in my dreams
Your love is what I need

I woke up to a bed layered in scattered pages,
with an empty coffee mug at the foot
and your glasses perched, crooked, on the tip of your nose.
Fast asleep, you hold a thick gray book
with your thumb rested on a worn page.
45.
I cradle the book and stare at the printed lines
and I find a marked passage, something to do
with the suicide of a young girl.
Heavy underlines, arrows, stars,
every type of signal to label something
important.
Note number 12 is scrawled in black loops to the right,
and I scramble until I find it
crumpled in his left palm.
Don’t ever let that happen to her. She’s too nice.
7:15 AM, I fall asleep,
the happiest I’ve ever been.

they were my works of art
and you gave them away
you imagined them for me
but you gave them to mere passersby

you painted a world of
watercolour dreams
oils of glorious skies
nights drew in with charcoals

drawing abstract stars
and graffiti moons
that shone over our love of love
our waterfall of wondrous things

but now the paint has dried
it cracks and you give slithers of it
to every passing fancy that looks your way
to muses with Mona Lisa smiles

my works are gone
given out as sweet treats
honey for the flies
catching the artists eye

and I fade to black
charcoal underlines my eyes
and not even my abstract stars shine

Overcoming you has been more than I care to say
Seeing past the facade before me has defined the fence
and hidden the gate.

I'm trapped here so long as you exist, no escape,
Without you, longing for another way to love
Or appreciate without you near.

I could passively sit and watch life pass you by
Or dig myself out and hope to finally say goodbye
Or simply end my life.

Forgetting you doesn't seem the option
Appearance in my dreams underlines your apathy
and my heart only spells caution.

*Te odio.

Dreams shrink with age and our aging bodies
follow
Disappointment underlines the expectation of
self
Deprivation withholds participation from true
form
Death in shallow waters and the stream of
always
Downfall isn’t anything without the rise of
hope
Dawn sprouts life on days we don’t
believe
Detestation dwindles when our first choice is
love

See?

i can't eclipse these shadows that creep from my skin,
they grow too big and too fast and i can’t keep them in.
but i find my crimson concentration of bliss,
where my prism cast dreams kiss my depleting darkness
and take it to bed to go to sleep.
see the edge is a gasp of air and yet a painful release,
but i think it is still better than the curve of the earth having already left my feet.

so take my faded late night crimes,
and fresh red pen underlines,
forgive me for internalizing,
and thank me for staying.

she wrote in my favorite book
with witty comments and neater handwriting
straight lines with her black pen
careful not to write over lines in ways i hadn’t been
careful not to hurt the words i’ve told her i loved
and i suppose that must say something
about how maybe she is a gemini
she certainly has a twofold relationship
with permanence
i noticed that
she underlines every capital letter indicating importance
when they aren’t at the beginning of the sentence
like Before and Investigation
she underlines what she thinks is important
and circles what she understands
she does both to me
and though i may not understand why she chose me to write on
i cannot help but smile at her annotations

I spoke to trails about my errors
My nothings have no room left to grow
I'm joyous and glee
Enclosing within my own caliber
The existence I'm speaking into is persistent  
I'm free of any refraction that can see itself ring
We think we are the only ones
The adoring spectacle of awaiting orders  
Don't wear clothes that aren't meant to be worn by you
I stitch values onto the linen that underlines the day I was born

In a box I lay
Shiny and
Reflecting the truth
Which may or may not
Want to be seen
By human eyes
That are full of lies.

My silver point
Underlines everything about you
That you wish to hide.
It turns your skin
Like a magic wand.
Ever so lightly
Giving you a frown.

You take me out
When you want to feel,
Then put away
When you want to be real.

I was made with innocence
And used by your mind.
My body inexistent
But I'll ruin yours
As easy as with a little line.

So beware of my power
I will let you know right now.
I am not what you need.
I am definitely not what you want.
I am here as protection
Just not against yourself.

BrIgHt TeNdRiLs Of A dEvIlS hAnD
rEaChInG tHrOuGh My FlOoR
lAtChInG oNtO tHe RoOf.
TuRn AwAy, RuN aWaY,
wAkE uP.

The first day
a man in the airport
searches my belongings.
He finds my thanks.
Written on paper
in colors of blue, green,and black.
A jagged smile form on his lips.
"Are these compliments?" He says. "Who wrote them?"
My answer , underlines with a chuckle is:
"That's just it. I have no idea."

"Well how peculiar. How do you treasure something that is the job of Sherlock Holmes?"
(solving mysteries, that is)
I say nothing,
just smile.
"And these names; you have taken the term read between the lines so literally here. These names are words I know, but I don't understand."
My response--as always--is:
"We use them to preserve
our magic.
our secrets.
our ties.
98% of what I hold dear is on that piece of paper. I swear."

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                               Rod McKuen at a Garage Sale

We don’t know who Baby ****** and Tommie were
They sent each other notes and underlines
And colored slips of paper from page to page
In Someone’s Shadow (“Hardbacks 25 Cents”)

The exuberance of adolescent arcs
Reminds us of our long-ago callow youth
When we thought we had discovered something
In secretly sharing free verse in home room

And we had – indulging in forbidden lines
Is still good therapy for being sixteen

Mass Move system
1 am carry me away
Sunrise floated home
Greyhound 2 hours
each way to see your lovely face
down a shot of moonlight
miles and miles and miles and miles
3 books annotated
underlines like bicycle wheel spokes
skewed and rippled
4 eyes
worn and felt
scattered sleepers
curled in knots and felt at peace
5 texts sent
to different loves
sad but too real to ignore (too many tears cried dry)
dehydration kept me whole (denied)

is a Picasso. She paints
it with the mascara wand. Rising
at dawn to roll the tube of crimson
wax to color her lips. She dips in a brush –

not for dust. But to sweep the powered
roses on her flesh. The shadow she sees
are mint green or azure. Depends on
the day if she’ll wear less or add

more. A pencil isn't for
writing the script, She underlines
her eyes with it.

I was born
A raised fist
A superman
A self-esteem built through
Tender love
I was born
A commitment
A future
My eyes carried a flame inherited
Relentless struggle
Scars and shadows that underlines
Everything that we are

As time leaves us behind
I understand
My fists opened up
They come together
In a series of
Shame and regret
Missed opportunity
A wasted life
Wasted dreams when I heard
Nothing because I closed my ears
Shut my eyes
Spoke no more
Dead outside as within
I understand but I cannot
Accept
Reject this being with all its glory
Glory and an endless sob story

I was born with a flame
I will extinguish it
Keep the coal warm till it crumbles
With the ashes let another write
Write my sins down to remember
Write me down to remember
Remember
Fist
Fire
Forging dreams
Feeling love

Forgiveness is a gift
I refuse to take with me
Remember to bury me under
Flowers of Passion
Remember to bury me