One day, i am going to grow wings,
And leave this place behind and never look back.
One day, i am going to grow wings,
And live as myself forever.
One day, I am going to grow wings,
And be the person I needed then.
One day, I am going to grow wings,
And not be scared of the height.
One day, i am going to grow wings,
And be free.

My wings will be big,
To support the weight of my grief.
My wings will be large,
To have the stability i never had.
My wings will be clean,
To remind me of the dirt in my soul.
My wings will be strong,
To fly high and fast from the depths of myself.
My wings will be light,
To make me feel like i never even had them in the first place.

In a fantasy world,
My soul is pure.
In a fantasy world,
My heart isn't hurting when left alone.
In a fantasy world,
My mind isn't my enemy.
In a fantasy world,
My existence isn't something to fight for.
In a fantasy world,
I will grow wings.

Admire them from afar,
Like the beautiful constellation they are.
You want to feel them close,
But is it worth it?

Your eyes will melt,
And your skin will burn.
You will turn into dust,
While they keep on shining and sinning
With their mere existence.

Is the cost of turning into ashes worth it,
Just to feel them close for a brief moment?
Where their brightness makes your irises explode,
And the heat makes your soul melt?

Is it all worth it,
Knowing it will end you and erase your timeline,
While this is just another fleeting moment
In the endless light of their life?

sometimes when i miss my mother
i feel for the pulse on the wrist of my wife
hers is steady and strong
  
waiting there
as my mother slowly slipped away
a nurse taught me how to find the pulse

in her final moments
when she stopped breathing
her heart ceased beating
and her pulse faded away
i felt it in my fingertips

so now

sometimes when i miss my mother
i feel for the pulse on the wrist of my wife
hers is steady and strong  
and i know exactly where to find it

The mind proposes
the heart opposes

Sure, it’d be nice
Nice to bottle up your breath
So I could carry a bit of you around with me
Or hair
Or nails
Really anything.

I can’t make people feel things
Anymore
It doesn’t matter
Anymore
If I use different sp a   C in    G
Or

Stanzas

The broken poet
No rhythm
No rhyme
Anymore