What a cruel irony it is, that we get to choose our thoughts but not our feelings.

Pressure knocks at my doorA clock ticks and demands its dueThe lava burns from the floorBut not in a game like it used to.So little time to figure it all outSo many distractions to prevent successI’m in a dark forest with no path or routeBut this internal fire knows no rest.

The stars stare back In that deep, Soul-shattering blacknessAnd from the depths of existenceComes a cruel, icy windRaising the hairs On the back of your neckAnd suddenly it feelsLike you’re walking a tightropeOver that endless abyssOn one sad, fraying, thinViolin string.

Real life is just another stage.Just another stage where I have to look and actLike I have everything put together;everything neat, perfect, and in order,when in reality I’m slowly dying,Slowly decaying, screaming and clawing,at this little box I’ve been put into, Trying desperately to escape.

Love is the poetry of the starsThe wind is the breath of the earthTo never become who you areOr to change at all, which is worse?

I often wonder and imagineWhat lies just beyond the fringeOf the human experience;What is it that we do not see?

In vain I try to jump into the photoTo create again a time so simpleThat a piece of paper might encapsulate itFrom the erosive winds and waves of timeWhich bring even the greatest of loves to a grave of dust.

We are a handful of dust in God’s imageBefore we return again to dusty graveLife isn’t a war, it’s a scrimmageA hyphen between two dates.

This piece of inked paper stands a colossusA monument to a string of moments once dear;The only surviving testament to a timeWhen these background bridges remained unburned,Before they became so much unswept rubble.