Ideas

Gathering my thoughts,
getting rid of them.

Clearing my head,
filling it back up
with new ideas.

It's a new day,
of course
it's a new day.

Where does it all lead?

To more days alone
in this empty house.

A dimly lit room
where my thoughts
can take the lead.

All I need is to empty my head
and fill another room
with each thoughtful thing inside.

The Truth of the Matter is

That book was filled with all the pain,
regret and torture endured in the past.

If left alone with my thoughts,
I'd fall into a pit of self harm and self pity,

it was there I leapt off the edge several times,
but never fell knowing how dangerous
I was to myself or anyone else around me.

I held on tightly to this book,
filled it with everything missing in my life,
so someday it could be found.

Thriving for the possibility of my words being dropped
and picked up by someone who could understand
the need for substance in my empty mind.

It became a list of everything wrong with me,
what needed and seemed impossible to change.
I held them deep and close to me,
and often ripped the pages and replaced them
with new ones full of more or less detail.

Reality showed that I wanted to rewrite myself everything
down to the length of my bleeding fingernails,
all because I felt no one could ever love me as I was.

So I began to live the lie I wrote myself until
I met someone who finally read me.
Someone who asked why I felt as I did.

It was a question I never could answer.

That was when everything changed,
when by my own omission, the lies surfaced,
yet this someone could still love me
despite being under the cover of this book.

Someone saw more. . .

The book still exists, but the confused self
and lost people in that life who would follow no longer do.

The someone who asked,
who changed my life,
never left me feeling empty.

Your Lonely Windowsill

She left a candle burning bright
in the darkest shadows of her home-

Where the hills were her finest friends,
and her greatest vision-
a sunset lined with white lace
which she poured on paper in black ink.

Her last request was to torch
what remained of the beautiful scene in ink,
for to her it felt so incomplete.

And for what reason does she throw away
all of her wearisome work?

Is it a vanilla scented casket?
An orchid?
Some blue-field violets?

We left her to rest,
but the world will not
until every single character
she scribed has been seen
by our human eyes.

She yearned for death so long,
yet still lives through every word she once wrote.

Now she's gone,
and all the world wants is her return
for a simple explanation.

It's a cold hint of irony,
an unforgettable one
we all must someday face.

It's all Wavy Lines

No one sees the world the way I do.

Even the lens in my eye is angled oddly,
but that's beside the point because
I'm talking about perspective in it's entirety,
a whole wide view of the world.

Not the separation
between my beliefs and yours,
the big picture.

How I perceive you as an individual,
how I associate your name
with an emotion, color, or your attitude.

I'm talking about how my emotions
move like pictures in my mind,
how I see them as actual colors
and odd shapes of all kinds.

How anger is nearly always red with fury
and often combines with other colors
to show complete indifference.

It's not cut and dry,
as I'm never feeling just one emotion,
and no two are ever alike.

While most people sway to the left or the right
with the color of their individualism,
I swirl and spiral like a crazy combination
of deep reds and violet blues.

I've drawn it several times,
still no one seems to understand.

Although I've never met another like me,
I know I can't be alone in the middle
of all the motion pictures in my mind.

Posthumousity

My life is hanging on a wire
for all of you to acquire.

You see all of my ups and downs,
and all the in-betweens.

Today I could be a Melting Clock,
or maybe a Monet,
or maybe I'm a piece that never sells until
my composers death has come.

Why our accomplishments
suddenly matter more in our death,
I'll never know.

Maybe I was agonized over,
but no one ever lived
to see me thrive.

I do hope that I'm not what my composer
worked a lifetime for,
but felt they never did succeed.

If I do have to be a legacy
someone left behind,
hang me high, light me up.
Let everyone see how hard
someone worked to complete me,

because now that I can finally be called complete,
my creator can rest in peace.

The Power Trip

She left them silent
listening to every lie
she let out,
but the guilt got to her
like a shepherds crook
around the neck.

A bad performance
in bad taste
by a very convincing artist.

She says persuasion is the key

You can make anyone believe anything,
but always at the cost of your conscience.

If you want to be believed;
be realistic,
be relatable,
play the part you know
they'll choose to believe.

Because they only ever
choose to believe
any lie you let out.

Convince them that
you're an honest person,
but wait a second. . .

Wouldn't it just be easier if
I just said no thanks?
I have more important things to do
than learn to be a good liar.

I told her if you want to be believed;
be realistic,
be honest.

I'm here Everyday

The happiness you lack is only temporary,
in our best moments it creeps out to greet me
in the most amazing ways.

So relax and trust me,
I know the feeling is real.

I see how the sadness and anger seep from you,
moving their way into the lives
of those around you every time.

Focus on what to be thankful for;
your wife, your house, your health,
and the life you've worked so hard to live.

Let the lesser fall to dust
and focus on everything
that kept you alive today.

Empty Words and Performance Nerves

So, you call me selfish?

Well, I've got news for you,
you're not exactly selfless.

I won't let the smoke come before me,
this self serving habit that destroys you
and everyone around you.

Well, I've got news for you,
your words are empty when
you take toxicity over family
and have the nerve to call me selfish.

Tough love, I'm just selfish enough
to follow through, tough cookies,
but I'm not watching you circle the drain.

You're welcome in my life,
but the smoke you blow is not.

Done and Over

I lost a piece of me in history,
dropped it along the way,
but dropped it on purpose.

Now that I'm on my own,
there's no one here to stop me
from being who I am.

I'm not alone,
it doesn't matter
who's opposed because,
I,
am for me!

There are,
and always will be,
those in my life
who will try to convince me,
that I'm the worlds worst
kind of person.

I dropped the piece of me
that ever bought in to that.

My self-worth was lost
because of that piece.

Although I will never be,
I'm one step closer to complete
because when that piece was lost,
some self-esteem was found.

Focus

For all the expectations made and obtained
there's a snag in the tight rope line
of reaching your resting place.

An already thin line
is even more daunting to step
when your eyes drift to dream
of where you'd rather be.

Getting to that dream is
essentially the same
as falling to your demise.

Dreaming is dangerous,
it'll send you plummeting
back down to earth,
but also leave you gathering the rest
of your splattered self off the ground.