4.4.12 (home)

the truth

in just being

is proof that i am real

but i cannot say

the same is so

for the things that i do feel.

meanwhile the cogs

and gears of time still turn

and my life do they steal.

all the while i am

trying to find

some place while i do roam

the place where i

feel i can die

a place solid as stone

it is the place where i

will settle down

the place i will call home.

but in this heart

among the blood and veins

many memories do i keep.

some bright as day,

some black as night,

some that cause this heart to weep.

but when i find my home,

i'm sure of it now,

i will bury them on that street.

4.4.12 (somber)

there is a cruelty
in inaction,
in silence,
in boredom.
it is the oppressive
state of being still.
my brain aches to
a swell,
not because of disuse,
or even misuse,
but because it's been working
far too hard
trying to stay grounded
in the midst of turbulent times.

4.4.12 (abandonment)

i have become

taboo!

such a funny feeling:

being cast aside

by many.

it makes the

many hours i spend

alone

that much more

justified

i suppose.

i cannot say

it is the worst fate

to be misappropriated

in such a manner,

but this all feels

very juvenile,

and for that

i am bitter.

4.4.12 (apparition)

in the waking hour
i have not been haunted
by your presence
and i have not been
clouded
by the thoughts that
once were,
but in the hour of
sleep,
in dreams,
you came to me,
or rather,
i to you,
and we were as friends,
and it was nice,
but heartbreaking
all at once.
in the dream,
i cried,
because i realized
i was dreaming
and this was
some impossible truth,
and when i awoke,
i had a headache.

4.3.12 (reflections)

observing
reflections
tired eyes
gaze back
at a sad,
scarred face.
it always seems
strange
to me,
how young
i still look,
and others,
seem to
think so too.
i suppose
i should be
glad
i do not look
as run-down
as i feel.

4.3.12 (overuse)

words
are like
magic
when wielded
correctly,
but words
cut like
knives,
when used
maliciously.
even so,
when used
to perform
magic,
words can lose
meaning,
if one tries
to manufacture
magic.

4.3.12 (insomnia)

sleepless nights
come far too often,
and days when
i succeed,
i stay in bed,
savoring
the little rest
my body achieves,
because i don't know
when such times
will return,
and i will be
tormented by
days
like today:
sleepless,
disconnected,
a hollow shell
of a being,
carried by
some wayward
wind,
i cannot describe.

4.3.12 (muddle)

through times
muddied
do i dredge.
clouded by
ones
i had been
deceived by,
pursued by
those whom
i have
deceived,
and still
i am
interested
in no one.
i long for
touch;
the warmth
of embrace,
but i fear
it will not
come,
nor would it
feel warm,
without love.

4.3.12 (twilight)

in the
darkening hour
of twilight
when the
wind
calms to a
breeze,
and the
incessant songs
of the birds
turn to the
lonesome cries
of those
left behind;
in this hour,
do i feel
most at home.
there is a
solemnity
that resonates
through the
darkness:
it is the
gathering
of
lonely souls.

4.3.12 (defeat)

under
circumstances
of defeat,
one has
but few
options:
one can
accept it
gracefully,
moving on
to the next
trial,
or
wither away,
forever
defeated.