this generic gift...
so many words I want to say, but no will or reason to say them,
I have no chance, not anymore.
its drifting away, all away. I’m not sure, and I know she doesn't agree.
so why should I even mention, something that will hurt to give, and amplify tenfold to
receive.
a gift I know not how to wrap because the standard is a cliché.
and it just wouldn't convey this something that she needs to hear.
its almost funny, in a sick sort of way.
perhaps that’s my corruption, grown evident through contact.
I’m that joke everyone knows.
the one that’s grown boring over time.
delivery is half the problem, and I am out of practice.
a striking soliloquy is all I could ever manage,
but it doesn't do her justice, could never do her justice.
just cheapens the gift even more.
it makes such a mockery out of the simple, yet maddeningly complex phrases.
the phrases I yearn to say, but don't truly want anyone to hear.
for what is said can never be unsaid, despite any attempt to cleanse.
such vile words, to always remain emblazoned on that elegant memory is unbearable.
but the question is this, would uncomfortable silence be more bearable?
does the pain burn more inside, safe, locked away from her?
or lashing out, demanding her ears and all the attention?
this is my cross to bear.
an unending barrage upon the nerves,
support is slowly, but most assuredly breaking, throwing out logic and all reason.
daring to replace them with cowardice and selfish thoughts.
ones that will most likely end in pain, from one, if not both of us.
thoughts contained or not, I shall suffer,
but in the end less casualties are more justifiable.
containment at least feels noble, a cheap nobility, but nobility nonetheless.
nobility nor forgiveness are not what I ache for, not guidance, and not respect,
just the means to deliver a message,
a gift, despite all the pain, that I still hold dear.
so many words I want to say, but no will or reason to say them,
I have no chance, not anymore.
its drifting away, all away. I’m not sure, and I know she doesn't agree.
so why should I even mention, something that will hurt to give, and amplify tenfold to
receive.
a gift I know not how to wrap because the standard is a cliché.
and it just wouldn't convey this something that she needs to hear.
its almost funny, in a sick sort of way.
perhaps that’s my corruption, grown evident through contact.
I’m that joke everyone knows.
the one that’s grown boring over time.
delivery is half the problem, and I am out of practice.
a striking soliloquy is all I could ever manage,
but it doesn't do her justice, could never do her justice.
just cheapens the gift even more.
it makes such a mockery out of the simple, yet maddeningly complex phrases.
the phrases I yearn to say, but don't truly want anyone to hear.
for what is said can never be unsaid, despite any attempt to cleanse.
such vile words, to always remain emblazoned on that elegant memory is unbearable.
but the question is this, would uncomfortable silence be more bearable?
does the pain burn more inside, safe, locked away from her?
or lashing out, demanding her ears and all the attention?
this is my cross to bear.
an unending barrage upon the nerves,
support is slowly, but most assuredly breaking, throwing out logic and all reason.
daring to replace them with cowardice and selfish thoughts.
ones that will most likely end in pain, from one, if not both of us.
thoughts contained or not, I shall suffer,
but in the end less casualties are more justifiable.
containment at least feels noble, a cheap nobility, but nobility nonetheless.
nobility nor forgiveness are not what I ache for, not guidance, and not respect,
just the means to deliver a message,
a gift, despite all the pain, that I still hold dear.
never knows best
An early december's evening
begins with this prelude to a new dream;
it's mixed with thoughts of tranquility
and amber light coming from a blood red
sun.
i notice your life so plain
and it makes me angry at cat stevens.
what with my flesh so tender
and i hope for tears on your lips,
but no more secrets on your mind
and then it all leaves like money, and like
clouds
without a trace.
An early december's evening
begins with this prelude to a new dream;
it's mixed with thoughts of tranquility
and amber light coming from a blood red
sun.
i notice your life so plain
and it makes me angry at cat stevens.
what with my flesh so tender
and i hope for tears on your lips,
but no more secrets on your mind
and then it all leaves like money, and like
clouds
without a trace.
.just to return.
saying goodbye is the knife that ends our time
cuts the ties that bind our flesh
and jettisons us into our collective past.
inevitible release is something thats been there since
the start,
yet it never came up.
because the concept of time was always just that,
a concept. one not worth bothering to question.
but the apex has been reached and the question
lingers.
hiding directly in front of our eyes like darkness at
night,
waiting for the right spark to give it life.
the main problem with infinity is that you can never
reach it
to attempt is to die while still in transit.
and a life spent searching is supposedly nothing.
but in the end the finish cannot be found.
we just count on the fact that it's supposed to be there.
finding it is the problem.
to reach it is to accept never returning,
because with the first step, we abandon home.
saying goodbye is the knife that ends our time
cuts the ties that bind our flesh
and jettisons us into our collective past.
inevitible release is something thats been there since
the start,
yet it never came up.
because the concept of time was always just that,
a concept. one not worth bothering to question.
but the apex has been reached and the question
lingers.
hiding directly in front of our eyes like darkness at
night,
waiting for the right spark to give it life.
the main problem with infinity is that you can never
reach it
to attempt is to die while still in transit.
and a life spent searching is supposedly nothing.
but in the end the finish cannot be found.
we just count on the fact that it's supposed to be there.
finding it is the problem.
to reach it is to accept never returning,
because with the first step, we abandon home.