It Feels Time To Die

When time passes and slips by so fast,

When I contemplate all that I’ve missed or forsaken,

It pains me to acknowledge my own mistaken steps,

To realize my fault in those moments taken.

To have aged to such a point missing out,

To have lost so many loves I should’ve cherished,

To be floating, numbing myself to indifference,

To have drifted past chances and watched them perish.

Will wisdom prove the worth of my decisions?

Have I lost too much to ever fully recover?

Do empathy and arrogance measure so equally?

Will hiding myself lead anyone to discover?

Choices, to decide what to do, what to be, who I am.

To be, my identity, with vulnerability and shame.

To understand, hidden weaknesses will never leave you.

Emotions leave you empty and cold when restrained.

Too many lost chances, too many disappointments.

Too long living sheltered, pretending to be free.

It feels time to die and murder insecurity.

To live again, opening as wide as I can be.

 

All The People In My Head

Some of them are funny, some of them are mean.

Some of them will only appear in my dreams.

Some like to go fast, others like it slow.

Some of them I hardly ever get to know.

This one is cynical, that one is meek.

This one’s just shy and too scared to be week.

That one is sensitive, this one is cruel.

He likes pretending that he makes the rules.

Sometimes they’re passive, sometimes they’re not.

Sometimes they’re anxious and screaming a lot.

A few are well-liked but most are despised.

Quite a few hide themselves with disguise.

This one is nice, she’s calm and she’s sweet.

That is wicked with malice and deceit.

Lustful are some while others are chaste.

One of them loves to feel tears on her face.

Some of them conflict, they don’t get along.

They pull me away from the place I belong.

They argue about me, they fill up my head.

They whisper to each other while I’m in bed.

Sometimes they’re helpful, sometimes they’re mean.

Sometimes they find myself in my dreams.

Down The Longest Stairway

Past the cellar doors and down the longest stairway,

Down the twisted steps of splintery rotted wood.

The cold and damp walls dripping wet with moisture,

And the dank earthy aroma fills my nose.

Minutes pass before I even reach the bottom.

The floor is carpeted, musty, and filthy with dirt.

It’s hard to breathe comfortably down here,

But there’s work to be done, however bad it hurts.

I tear the carpet open with my bare hands,

I rip and pull it out until it’s completely gone.

The floor is nothing now but moistened black dirt,

And an open pit that was covered so long.

Planks of aged wood cover this open sore.

I start pulling them away one by one.

Dirt and dust cover me, and fall into the abyss.

Slowly light begins to shine through the cracks.

Peering down into the pit I finally see,

I see the creature that was trapped and hid away.

I see it looking out, our eyes lock together.

What I saw down there,.. was me,… but not in just any way.

I shuddered,… I gaped,… My heart’s bleeding again.

So well hidden. So,… cruel and barbaric,… Is that really what I am?

 

 

The Pinnacle

You’re the greatest high I reach for,

One that I could never grasp.

You’re the ideal I hold highest,

I fall short of, I collapse.

Something I should never have,

I should never be trusted with.

Like I shouldn’t look too hard,

But I’m too restless to resist.

Only one way holds respite,

Pain is sure with or without.

Damn me if I reach too high,

Or love me and reach out.

You scare me so completely,

The things I know you do.

Tie my stomach into knots,

And petty lust ensues.

It hurts my heart to think of,

My nerves will jolt and twitch.

I’m not your precious moment,

And it makes my stiches itch.

I drew you as the pinnacle,

I let you get too deep.

Wanting what I cannot have,

I’ll lose myself in sleep.

 

 

 

What She Should Know

She was only just a child

When I was just a child.

We’re only children now

Even though we’re fully grown.

I needed some restraint

And some love when I was younger.

I have what she could give,

What she lacked I have become.

Fighting, fussing, killing time,

Self-obsessed, neurotic, home.

Child, mother, still a child,

Help me learn to be alone.

My hereditary depression

Cannot help but look at you.

Floating on in your distress,

Not a clue what you should do.

Look at me for worthiness,

Someone who you loved and made.

Shouldn’t I look up to you?

Is this part for me to play?

Maybe so, I’m coping better

Than you ever learned to cope.

With all that I could hold against you,

I don’t want to see you choke.

There for me, not there for me, matters little anymore.

Maybe you’ll feel better if you found something to live for.

The One That’s Hanging

Blind, with an overpowered sense of smell,

The one that feeds on the diseased.

Sliding in and out the gates of mental health,

Recycling flesh from the depressed and deceased.

The worm, a gargantuan behemoth,

An omnipresent filter of the lost.

Endlessly seeking the scent of suffering,

Transference of feeling at energies cost.

So the child in the trees, that one that is hanging,

The one that’s dripping wet with remorse,

That sways listlessly in the torrential rain,

With the seductive scent of suicide dispersed,

Attracts the sightless hungering mouth,

Who surfaces from the Earth to be fed,

Whose bloated body consumes her corpse,

Satisfied, swallowing the saddest of the dead.

The casualties caused by tormented minds,

The sick, the unstable, the neurotic and depressed.

The casualties consumed by the careless and blind,

Basted unwittingly in the flavors of distress.

The one that’s hanging and dead in the trees,

The tantalizing sadness that floats on the breeze.

The one who gorges on those passions released,

The final transference, Flesh and Feeling, it Eats.