**** all artificial lights
no natural causes but
natural darkness
fake lights for true dark
blackest of blacks
like charred tree bark
leave but one imposter
glowing in the gloom
just pale enough
to write onto
and that's my door to you

Those who have it- doesn´t want it,
Those who want it- doesn’t have it,
Those who had it- regrets it,
Those who never had it- craves for it.

What is it you ask?
It´s called love my friend.

My skies are always
so clearly blue when they're not
obscured by the night.

I'll let darkness in
if you promise to fill it
with endless starlight.

You cannot break the broken, you can't live in the past, throw that memory away, you cannot let it stay, oh I wish I had the power to change every wasted hour, to knock down this growing tower under which I fearfully cower, in my ball of self regret.

             
                    I can remember:

                Tears that I have shed.

                 Lies that I have said.

                 Pain I have inflicted.

              Oh how I feel conflicted.


But know now this, for it is true, for all the things I can't undo, I'd never regret loving you.

I've discovered Hell, and the truth is,
It isn't a place you go, it's a sickness.
It resides within your bones
And its scaffolding is made from trauma.
The only fire you'll find is from the white-hot flashbacks
That leave you drenched in sweat that smells like smoke.
No-one lives there except you and your enemies,
And your enemies are fragments of history, unable to be killed.
Your mind is the devil that subjects you to punishment
That you can't help but be convinced that you deserve,
And escape is a notion kept only for tears;
Everything else remains trapped.
Hell is being held within the cage of your own body
And killing yourself trying to break free.

There are a few things in the world
That wave between light and darkness.
Such things allure me
I've some unknown hunger for them
Like a monster
It's neither an angel
Nor a devil
But it still is
Like a black rose
Rose is a symbol of goodness
Yet its stained in darkness
And it blooms as black
These things captivate me
Like a charmer captivating it's prey
I wonder about them all the time
I guess after all
I'm like them

It started as a puncture,
but the seam slowly ripped;
a thimble can't protect
from a poison needle tip.

She tried to mend it
by making more holes;
the tear only grew
and grew out of control.

At the spinning wheel
her life would quickly dwindle;
frantic attempts to hem
were depleting the spindle.

What started as a puncture
of seductive sedation
fueled the abuse
of machined perforation.

"Don't mourn a living corpse"
were the last words she said
as she drew the needle
that held the last thread.

Why are we all just living to die
when we all should be dying to live?