We write poems, and dance.
We sing and we act.
Sometimes we draw and paint,
        but for what?

Someone once told me,
Write and dance to loose yourself.
That's what I then thought I had to do.
         I was wrong and that was then

I used to think the purpose of art was to loose myself,
but I quickly learned it was to,
         *find myself where I lost myself.

what she misses isn't her
it's the way she made her
feel on top of the world.

I suppose this wall is to blame.
No windows. No doors. Just brick.
No way to claw out of it,
But the effort is killing me.

I suppose the construction worker is to blame.
No ladder. No rope. Just height.
No way to climb over,
But I try in desperation.

No tunnel.
No passage.
Nothing.

I suppose I'm to blame.
I did built it so long ago.
I forgot how to get out.
This is my mind after all.

Break my sleep
with taken air
Eyes wide shut
in a frightened stare

Mind left frozen
and body stiff
Translucent images
with painful riff

Burning light
to senses numb
Return the monster
that haunted some

Took my youth
and left the child
Spinning room
from demented mild

Flew through the wires
and felt all cold
Kept coming back
entrenched and sold

Repeated dream
punished me scared
Each night the same
more intense and flared

Dripped in sweat
caved into my head
Tingled left feeling
Gone to the dead

Each night was the same
returned to the night
Alone frightened child
wrapped up tight

Confused and a mess
not gone from my mind
The repeated dream
comes back every time

you're a hopeless romantic and he's a realist
you think he's the one, he has to be "the one"
while he's thinking ill find another like my last lover
but you're stuck on him
                                          
                                                  him

         ­                                                          him
                        
                                                                ­                    forever him.