Pray

Free hand to write
On the edge of polite
To the mind and soul
Moods high or low

Circling the pain
That keeps me sane
Will I today survive
Hurt says I’m alive

Praying to the God enveloped in my head
Why own thoughts are wishing me dead
Confined to the 4 corners of my room
Take me now, or take me soon

Heavy head with knees a bleeding
Nodding still, crouching and pleading
Babbling a language all of my own
Can’t find solitude, until I’m home

Various flashbacks of whom im calling
Above my eyes raising and falling
Swallowing my soul, my light to see
Who am I?, who will save me?

Answer now or forever stay silent
So I can walk peacefully
Into the twilight.

Cry

When you go to sleep
I shall weep

In private, tears will fall
Requiring help, I won’t call

Cries drown my pillow
From days of sorrow

Always a restless hour
With thoughts turning sour

Awake in a personal hell
Mind is my prison cell

Cut me open, make it swift
Bleed me empty, as a gift

Blood shall be my last weep
Peace now, forever sleep.

Laughing in the Dark

Lean on me
When the cold casts a shadow
On the soul,
The dark transferring to the mind
As a ghost
Swallowing life and blinding
Eyes of colour,
I will guide you towards the light,
When time seems too long
To see and walk
Through the psychological storm
And tears leave scars
Unseen to others,
I will hold your hand
Drag you towards the sun,
Though if your weight bares to strong
I shall stay,
And the Demons shall hear us
Laughing in the dark.

Dreams can come true

Thinking is nights blinking
Keeping awake the conscience
Alerting panic to stand by
Even though it’s a lie.
Sanity briefly held together
By a strand of rationality
That’s left in a reality.
Would I really do this
Could this really happen?
No not today, or ever,
But the mind lives it as truth
Senses and heart in overdrive
Bringing death closer through neglect.
The body lives by the heads guidance
Believing the false inevitable,
Asking what’s the use
In carrying on towards oblivion
As an supposed evil or fractured person
In this squalor we call freedom.
If the eyes saw what the body felt
The shock would kill the soul,
The hand would let blood flow,
Flooding the sanctuary of the mind
Until there can be no more questioning,
No Arguing or inner struggles with ones self.
Is it best to surrender prematurely
Instead of forever defining
Peoples altered perspectives of love and hate?.
Its tiring,
I wish I had the strength to just lay down and die
And release my soul, to this unknown fate.

Illusion of safety

Waiting but it’s already here
The dark space to which I crawl
Pushing to escape this prison,
The boundaries on which I draw

Smiling but I’m already dead
Internally an empty house of glass
Every step, a step too far
Painful to survive, to forever last

Thinking but the thought has stuck
An enemy of autonomy and will
I’m safe in my compulsive home
Never to breathe, never too kill

History but not the present
Happy with my compulsive lie
Only one certainty calms my soul
I will not live, I will not die.

Time between sleep

As the sun rises
The mind sets
On a horizon of space
And joyful chaos,
Carrying you on a journey
Of laughter and confusion
Through an orbit of mischief,
Only returning,
By holding the hands of the stars
Who lay you back down
In comfort and wonder,
Until you’re awakened fully
Wondering, if your voyage was true
As dreams can tell lies,
Though what can’t be hidden
Or ever taken
Is the sparkle, left in your eyes

True Belief

To believe in the chemical of blackness,
A slight of light in the sky, turns out to be a fool’s romance.
Which means stars are a gift from distance,
Not a shooting mirage, viewed by chance.

The past is the past until it doesn’t last,
When does it start catching up to you?
The answer is never,
if you endeavor to end history prematurely.

Get off, get on the ride
Both a form of suicide
Dont just weep on seeing the sheep,
Wander to your own haven
Where thoughts are enslaved
And banished on the grounds of rationality.

Can never change a believer
Unless doubt breeds from within,
Then belief becomes a story
An ugly fairy tale
That grew its roots in truth
But no longer serves a purpose
Other than a reminder
Imagination has a sensation
That lends itself to emotional illusion.