"i do not have the time"
is such a shitty excuse
to not do what you love.
painting portraits that happen to rhyme
portraying me and you,
and the tragedies of love.
Sobering rush of the midnight breeze,
hits her face, she falls to her knees.
Tears patter against the pavement,
poison in her blood for entertainment.
While he stares at the scene with a blank expression,
wondering if there is a lesson:
to be learned from this pitiful display,
while they go back and drink the night away.
I’m not scared of dying,
I already have,
Life is spent weeping and crying,
suffering till our time has passed.
Death is not a fearful prospect,
it’s more like a reward for putting up with living.
Don’t make me shout,
to the moon and stars.
That echoes loud,
reverberates off cars.
A story of failure,
the funeral’s eulogy,
in which our love’s affair,
does to you not what it does to me.
And I grudge the story’s ending.
His moon does to him as the tide,
reels him in, then pushes him away.
In all death there is beauty,
for life there must be death,
life is the reapers duty.
love deteriorated before my eyes ,
and I can’t find anything beautiful,
in that kind of demise.
I pulled your hand to my heart, squeezed and said “I love you”,
and it was like clenching my teeth and pulling a fucking trigger.
there is a growth,
growing and festering,
nagging and pestering.
that I just can’t shake,
it is under my skin,
it’s the final battle,
In a war I won’t win.
And I want more than ever,
just to cut it out,
to stop the venom,
that spews from it’s mouth.
It’s tongue is cloaked in honey,
raising hopes and expectations,
That I’ll never come to meet,
No matter how badly I want them to.
But I don’t know why,
I cannot remove it.
I try and I try,
I just can’t seem to do it.
So now it’s to late,
And I must accept,
into my heart and brain,
It has successfully crept.
So even if I did,
cut it out in due time,
it would continue to fester,
Inside of my mind.
Anchor your body,
for a sense of security,
the typhoon raging,
showering conflicted emotions,
will drag you out to sea regardless.
I could create a time machine,
and say different things,
and make you feel different ways.
But if I did so,
would it really be worth it?
Or does all the frustration I feel,
help the authenticity of the passion?
next to you,
I’ve never felt so far away from something.
if I look towards the other direction
you are as distant as humanely possible.
To whom it may concern:
the words flow delicate across the page,
not knowing whether someone will read,
or if something will be left,
to be desired,
or if the reader will comprehend,
love is more delicate than hatred,
but the hate is stronger and overpowers, the feeling that could have prevented,
these words from being written.
They are written,
because there is nothing left to do,
we are all castaways,
drifting away in the sea of humanity,
but the waves roll,
natural monstrosities that eradicate,
all that we know.
All that it takes,
is a hand to reach out,
and pull someone from the clutches,
of themselves and everyone else.
The misery, and the sorrow.