Writing so simple and yet complex.
What drives people to put words to a page? Is it hope... madness?
Perhaps is simply an escape, both for readers and author.
            For me writing is not
            merely making an esc-
            ape from reality, but a
            realization of it. To
            make you ponder, look
            around. See the world
            for what it is.
Years I questioned myself, what is my calling? My contribution to the world? Is it my undying thirst for knowledge or a drive for betterment.
Perhaps a teacher to those in need.

I write... write to reach people. To write the dark twisted truths and fears of those who don't.
Writing a simply complex form of sharing your soul to another.

The noise it's so loud
The voices haunting me, they say I'm the Devil, I'm theirs for the taking
Am I?
I swear I'm good
Did you hear that? I think they're back
I'm not ready to go
Do you hear them?
The voices in my head...

What am I?
Who am I?
Am I the bird flying or the mossy floor below?
Questions to be answered yet left behind
Feeling lost in the sea of unknown
These thoughts, emotions I'm at a lose
Am I questioning too much?
Thinking alittle too much?
Trapped in my world of wanting more yet receiving less than desired
My mind seeming empty yet full as I look out unto the sea chaos in this place
My wandering soul slowly fading, my words in the emptiness of obscurity
Blurring my reality with questions I can not answer
Am I here or there?
Am I a ghost unseen or simply barely living?
These thoughts, feelings
Calling out from the dark waiting to be  heard

Broken beyond repair
Someone call the doctor
The lights slowly dimming
The picture fading

Fearing this is the end
She looks in the mirror
hoping to see a smiling face,
but staring back was the cracked
image of what was

Broken beyond repair
Those lights now a soft glow
of yesterday
That beautiful picture now
black

Around every corner
Stands a shadow
Death all around screaming
With shadows of lost souls
crying out for hope
to girl rounding the
corner

But you see
hope she can not bring
She one of them
now a shadow
The keeper of lost souls
Death has taken her hand

We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.