From sleeping in streets to walking miles alone I have come to a direction the page just cannot follow my friends .
I have chased the bottom of a glass since I was fifteen and that was to far to be anything more than a blurred memory.

And to the times that seemed to matter.
Now only to those who haven't lived my existence a lone wolf knows no true  direction just simply howls to let the others know he does still exist.

Are words betray us and then eventually it all fades .
I'm not the act I'm the delusion that fueled a ego now left to wither a dead tree in a forest of many .

None will recall but far to many will simply use ******* when facts get in there way of a good story .

Tonight I sat under a full moon and howled as the wolves often do.

There was only silence that followed the eco .

Even the lost know there is no hope for the madness .
When your words betray you and only a dead tree remains.

Maybe another time the stars will find me in good favor .
And like those around tonight will listen and only stay silent to the lone wolfs howl.

It´s been raining for seven days
I just want to see the sky
A piece of me is out of place
I watch the clouds as they cry

Nothing matters now
I am going insane
Our sacred vow
Has fallen with the rain

It´s been raining for seven days
I just want to block it out
Standing on the street in a daze
Wishing for a drought

Nothing matters now
Who am I without you
The sky has forgotten how
To paint itself blue

It´s been raining for seven days
I just want to drown in this sea
You have fallen from grace
Was she more beautiful than me?

I stopped writing the day I left you
Because with 1300 miles to seperate us
I am slowly forgetting what it feels like
To feel gravity pushing on me through your body
Or to hear you whisper me to sleep

I quit singing in the shower
The moment I got on that plane
Because no bathroom echoes the way yours does
And no water can rinse you into me

I've been turning into something since that day
Something not made of my particles
And I think it has to do with
Them still sticking to your skin

My mind has been blank for years
I can no longer bleed on to the paper
I lost my ability to write
Expression has been foreign to me
Since I opened my veins to write about him
The wound festered and poisoned my brain
It took my sense of speech
My sense of beauty
My artistic gleam upon the world
I have yet to find an antidote
To the venom in my veins
The verses will have to stay concealed
Buried under my bones
Hymns trapped I the hinges of my heart
Hoping to one day spill onto the paper

I want to get beneath my skin.
I want to dig under my nails,
Tear at the roots of my hair,
Claw at the soles of my hands and feet.
I want to find the words I can't express,
The feelings that sit in my stomach
That I just can't seem to throw up.
They lie just behind my fingertips,
Just behind my mouth,
At the precipice of recognition.
I just can't seem to throw them up.

I found that I cannot cry, and expect, in my tears, that a poem has been written.
Emotion, and heart, and feeling are not the only components to art,
and boy is it ******* hard to come up with the rest.
Sometimes, I’m so choked up on inspiration,
that I can’t get my figures to move well enough to type or write.
I’ll have a feeling in my head, so strong that it washes away any words for explanation.

Right now, I’m stuck, so I stumble, and I fall.
The poem collapses onto itself,
And I’m back at the beginning again.
With so much feeling and ideas.
And Nothing to show for it.

I wanted to write a poem today
The words just would not go away
None of them rhymed or went together
Random words going on forever
Follow them, see where they go
Falling down the rabbit hole
Bounce along, one, two, three
Letting thoughts run freely
Cheerful, sad and depressed
The feelings held within my breast
Let them out, let them go
That is how the story’s told

i consume the continuous days without nighttime
and greater shadows afflict mine. towards the edge
a body without mass they had no power
to gravitate towards the ground. In my throat
there's a soundless scream and an abyss of burials
no one attended. and in case the mindless tongues,
the senseless sensates, and the human brainiacs, cared
the sky would be my dance floor, and the atmosphere would still
drive me breathing it in. a mismatch of socks,
a counterclockwise swing, a cold cup of coffee,
a bullet sans its gun, and a gun with the imaginary trigger -
i am no good. i am no good.