If i have the light..

where have I placed it?



Sometimes I fear that when I die,
my bones will be so devoid of energy
that they will be

too fragile to even discard.


They will just leave them where I fell.






But the many voices will continue..
all soliloquizing in the same languages -
the world.

Another hollow hand writing poetry
as naive as god's.


Your lips still green
and crammed with lies, I see.
I wonder if you realize just how
fucked up I am.

If you'll calm the darkness,
or push it off like it doesn't exist.





Is this all I get?
Random words thrown together in an attempt
to ask for help...
grasping for that clutching warm hand.




Does it even make sense.


Everything is becoming glaringly real...
the blue coffin of the sky,
your silent sighs that make all my words pale,


this spiritual urge of this wild moment to commit suicide.


I see it all.
The fly on this rock,
and the woman in these lies.

Cyptic? Yes.
I still have my voice,
and I still want it.
It's just easier to hide than becoming like a child denied birth.



I've lost the elegance.



The agony of wings..
pulled back and clipped...
only difference with this angel though,


is that I've yet to own the sky once.













I'm hesitating
on entering this mirror.

If you [Log In] as a member you can discuss this work with others