Home Is Where The Heart Is?If Home is Where Your Heart Resides,Tell What Would Happen When,Your Heart Has Lost It's Size,Never Fitting Correctly Then?Shriveled Up and Cracked, Broken Into Many Pieces,But Piled So Neatly, Stacked,All Folded Up, So Many Creases.
Where I Come FromWhere I Come From
I come from a long line of diversity,Where to each is his own,None the same, yet none totally different.I come from a long line, never straight,Always curving to Destiny's will.Forever running.I come from a long line of dreamers.Dreamers and SchemersWith tricks and traps on their mindsA long line of deception and misleading
Why Me?Why Me?Why is it that they pick me last?Why is it that every time something good happens Something bad follows?Why can't I ever catch a break?Why me?What are these feelings?Why does everything that comes to mind refer to my only way out?Why do I have these feelings?Why Me?Why is it that I feel alone?Why is it that no one is there?Why hasn't anyone been there?Why Me?Why am I alone?Why Can't anyone help me?Why don't they understand?Why Me?Why Can't I be me?Who controls life?Why can't I be special?Why Me?Where Is God?Where are the angels?Why can't they be with me?Why Me?
ma merei think my mother thinks i'm blind,that i see only my own faultsand forget the fractures in her composure,the fissures in her failing heartthat keep her awake at night.i fear she thinks i do not see the strength in her scars.i think my mother thinks i'm deaf,that i cannot hear her silent sadness;it has always echoedin the halls of this family home.maybe she thinks i do not hear the wisdom in her words.i think my mother thinks i'm numb,that i do not feelthe eternal love in every touch;i know with absolute certaintythat no onewill ever love melike my mother does.every hug is a blessing that brings me home.but maybe, my mother has it twisted.i'd do anything for her to see the beauty in being faulted,to know she hears me when i say 'i love you',and be assured she feels my heart when i hug her back.
LiarStriking designStunning, the messageOutrageous to the knowingUniquely colouredSuperb, the techniqueHilarious to the informedWisely composedSkilfully arrangedMaster of his ArtLiar.
DownfallAnd in this dark harvest of seasonMy life has completely lost reason,For which or against to decide.All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tideIn sadness and in kindnessIn light and in darkness.In a boat made of hopeI shall sail to tomorrow,In a winding hurricaneMade of treachery and sorrow.There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...Piercing, slashing though my head.Starting somewhere in heaven,Ending somewhere in hell.Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.Are the armies within.In my head they are all thrashing.On the heaven's and hell's whim.To be light or to be darkness.A perpetual array.It's not merely my choice,But the choice of the way.It's an option of the voice,It's a thin line of gray.Is it a choice forced by fate,Is it a pre-set time and date?Or a choice to which I myself sway?But here's our story anyway
."Nothing that I do will matter.As all things will merely shatter!"All my hopes thus darkness scatter,As it shoves me a decree.As it si
TealTealwaters worry the pristinesand, washing blank paperinto a bevy of tidepools.The hush of the surge whispersits song into conch shells;the tinge of brine mingleswith coconut milk and driedseaweed clumping the beach.Hermit crabs dot the strandlike constellations, waitingfor soothsayers to read meaninginto their trails before the waveswash them away like comets.
TakenIt was just a strategic readjustment.It was just a necessary tactical move.It was just your finger moving half an inch leftand curling slightly.It was just the centimeter or two of differencebetween the moment that just was,and the one that is,but you reached for my handand you took my heart.
I think of youAs suns set afar and mountains flameAnd eagles, turning, turn to fireAsh cold, alone I lieAnd think of you.
powerless, and reaching."He's the kind of personwho tells me to 'cheer up'when I'm depressed,"he says, scoffing,and I shake my headand say,"What a useless comment."He chuckles, agrees,but I keep thinking abouthim,about all the "cheer up"sand "just be happy"s he's heard in his life.I want to say "cheer up,"I want my words to magicallycure him, heal him, crush his depressionin a way that no pills ever could,but I know it doesn't work like that.Happiness is not an itemto be obtained with quartersand coupons,it is not a country to travel toin airplanes and sailboats.Happiness is a change in the wind,a flicker from east to westthat cannot be upheld permanently.For him, it is a roadblocked by people who roll their eyesand tell him to get over himself.When I wrap my arms around him,he laughs again,sinks into my body.I think about hollow rooms,sound echoing off the walls.
SapiosexualI don’t know what I’ll dowhen the first fistfulof dirt hits the bottom.Maybe I’ll follow you to the grave.Or maybe I’ll prayfor a zombie apocalypse,so we can dine on eachother’s brains one more time.
All Hallows EveThey say that on this night the witches ride,that spirits walk and churchyards spew their dead. It isn’t true. It’s said the stench of hell infects the earthand healths of heated blood are downed. But Hamlet lied. The dead know nothing, the living less. There are only poets with blood-nibbed pens;souls hung between high heaven and deep hell.