In the end,
Only the little bird stands,
Alone,
Amidst the carnage.
The little bird,
Who flew away,
Away from the blood,
Away from the hate.
Now he stands,
Amongst the ruin,
Amongst the dead.
Hear his song,
For in the end,
Only the little bird stands.

Reading poetry doesn't fill voids
We sit still in fear of falling
Dwelling in the dark
A shallow attempt at masochism
When blood doesnt suffice

When living with addiction, you focus your time and effort on your next fix. I wish that this was fiction, but its a sickness that your stricken with.

This habits self inflicted, behind your smile your suffering. You hate your life and feel numb inside, from the shame you bare as punishment.

Why do you entertain the thought of suicide, for the position you put your self in. When your depression stems from low self worth, yet your still injecting hopelessness.

Stop looking for a permanent solution, to a temporary problem. Is your life so bad that the only feeling you know is pain, or is it guilt from the thrill you get, as you search, for the perfect vain.

You say you've finally had enough, your fed up and its time for change. But its a vicious cycle with mental strain, because tomorrow came and remained the same.

I speak to you during the day, you listen but you remain silent. At night I hear a familiar voice, his shift begins when I close my eyelids.

Sometimes in my dreams i see these bright flashes that illuminate, what appears to me to be the sky. But the lightning strikes are a disguise, my subconscious creates to fool my eyes. The action of my neurons firing, are mistaken by my mind as lightning.

I watch the sky in disbelief, for the light show seen is so inspiring. I'm captivated by my thoughts, as they travel along my neural wiring.

My subconscious works overtime to keep me from discovering its deception. But this false reality my subconscious made, is a needed form of protection.

As I dream my mind and body get the rest that's truly needed. So I can recuperate the energy, that the previous day has depleted.

My subconscious is a narrator,  that explains my life without subtitles. Threw my dreams on this screen, plays a movie that I'm forced to watch. So truly when do I get sleep, when I'm in my dreams, and I'm deep in thought.

Don't judge me by that
I am not a *** head
But i will smoke on occasion
And i have found out
That in fact ****, is my best friend
After one hit,
I'll crack a smile
After the weeks I've been frowning
From this constant depression
After two hits,
Even the commercials on TV make me laugh
When i haven't been able to find humor in anything
After three hits,
I become hungry
Even though i haven't had an appetite
For a very long time
After four hits,
I feel a sudden lightness
Finally relieving me
Of all the sadness and stress weighing me down
After five hits,
I find confidence in myself
And do anything
It feels good to stop hiding behind others
After six hits,
I'll start to sing and dance
And i don't care who sees me
After seven hits,
I feel like superman
Even though my body's always drained
After eight hits,
I realize I'm somebody
Even though the world makes me feel like I'm nobody
After nine hits,
I get a little crazy
And don't care about "following the rules"
After ten hits,
I forget about all the pain
I have in my heart
And after its all gone
I fall asleep quickly
And stay asleep
After being awake for days
So yes,
**** is my best friend.

We are the poets,
A mass army
Of tortured souls
Writing about our suffering
In hope to gain
peace of mind
When in actuality
The world is our torturer
And we are nothing but the victims
Writing of our experiences,
Putting words together,
Perfectly,
Into a mass
Of meaningless lines
To entertain
The ones who cause
Us to pick up the pen
What is a poet
Without a broken mind
And a damaged heart
Well, nothing but
A horrible writer
attempting to
Rhyme verses
And put together stanzas
In hope to get the
View from the world
A true poet
Is not sane
They have no belief
"Sanity" exists
They are outcasts,
Not normal
to the eyes
Of the world
But a person
More beautiful
on the inside
than a poet,
Does not exist
Poets have been
Driven past
Their breaking point
Pushed until
The damage done
Was far beyond repair
We are the poets
A mass army
Of tortured souls
Fighting a war
Of cruelty
enflicted by
The human heart
Hoping our words
Can bring peace
To the people
Who can't find peace
Within their selves

I often wonder
as the night
closes in and
so do the walls
around my mind
I wonder when
it happened in
human evolution
that we would
become inescapably
immobilised by
the hands of a
clock