untitled.

it sings it's song in a silver tone,
full of bliss, marked by desire.
it's name is love, the tiny fowl
a hypnotic song all did admire.

I used to hear, but have since been deafened
notes gone awry, fate did contort
the bird, the prey. and hate the hunter
a tune, a life, a hope cut short.

chasing waterfalls.

life is slowly but surely becoming stranger and stranger.
more exciting sure, but also resembling a Palahniuk novel.
I pass out for whatever reason at least once a week. I come to in strange places around my house that I don't remember going to at strange times throughout the day.
I'm guessing it's from the low blood pressure but I can't be too sure.
But I feel almost.. clean in a sense when it happens.
I'm having flashbacks from 2000-2001. But only in that time period. Never before or after. Like there is something that my brain wants me to remember but I just keep repressing it. I'll remember certain things that I ate, or things that someone said, even entire days but when I feel like I'm understanding why, everything stops. and it's back to reality.

funny.

it's weird to think how I could go from caring about a person so much, to disregarding their existence.

My Darling Icarus:

and ever so sweetly,
the bird of reason sings.
what you love, you must lose,
much like your wings.

and all that you were,
or could ever hope to be,
will be burned by the sun
and lost in the sea.

Youth.

The clock never stops.
we must exert and exhaust,
to cherish all we've found,
and forget what we've lost.

An opposable force
Our strong state of mind,
a code of delinquency
never failing to bind.

That which we value most,
only time can steal.
Our naivety fleeting,
Our struggle is real.

A season for everything.

The days we spoke
grew few and far between.

Summer past,
and Autumn fell.
A discontent grew,
where once all was well.

Pomegranates ripened,
coloured of a lover's blood,
an empty doorstep,
where your soul once stood.

Now seasons dwindle,
I can only bereave,
Such as trees must,
when they lose their leaves.

The Battle of the Stick and the Sword.

The trouble with ink,
is it's delibility,
it's credibility,
it's blatant ability
to make us believe.

In lead or graphite,
we can deny
but blue or black
holds a truth.
It shows mistakes,
we've tried to hide
and words crossed out
we dare not say.

But words in grey,
are insecure
words of fear
and words not sure.
All unclear,
Erased and muddled.
opinions reformed,
and thoughts befuddled.

We hide our truths,
with one fell swoop
and hope it goes untouched.
For smearing would only
spread the lies.