1. |
Rose Hope
03:16
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So forgive me if I hammer my keys in frustration.
Aesthetics dilute and confound concentration.
The ceiling, like glass, breaks and shatters my vision.
Some days even my lungs stutter from indecision.
There lies my hope, steeped high in antiquity.
Scarify my throat with the flame of audacity.
Never ask the world of a man on a ledge.
If there's a promise here, it's that there's always fear.
All the hurt that's put aside. Impossible to tell inside.
Labyrinthine consequence, will never speak if never meant
Can volition be mistook, if everyones indifferent?
Wings that beat out gravity, don't think in terms of what is free.
The price is irrelevant, when everything is overspent.
Feeling from nothing, there has got to be something.
Bravery's not who has stayed, it's being the only one to know
you're afraid.
And just the other night a bird walked across my pillow,
searching for one remaining, place to sing...into my ears
I laid down my head, in a place all too familiar, to that recently-dried riverbed.
And scratching the surface of the ground, I knew life flowed here once
between my fingers; now heavy to lift, but life will come again.
Over and under my senses, where:
To the east is the waterfall.
To the west is the sunset.
To the north is the light.
To the south is the regret.
A bed of rose hope grows ankle high, every time you can't help cry.
But even fighting back the tears, is something worth a try.
I've been there too; scratching at the concrete past until my fingers bled.
Although it may be no solace to hold my hand, assure me
I will walk with you into the blankness and nothingness ahead;
if that may be, and you will never be alone. I will never be alone.
We will walk one step ahead of the loneliness we only wish, in these times, we could find hope in.
One more time (Trust me)
One more night ( the morning
One more breath (will be there)
One more try ( when you wake up.)
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2. |
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She said she'd buy her feet when off the street.
The consequence of offering her suffering for certainty.
An acid dream of saccharine and nicotine. Holy seams of heresy and clarity.
Save your lion-hearted coat of arms, for eyes of deeper green and vanity.
And then it sinks to the heart!
Blank page; black book.
Has your salvation been a cry out for help? Or just a fix?
To settle track marks, before it crushes more than copper coins into dust.
Like a virus underneath the cross
Tighten up, your belt! A vice is only deep if anyone tells,
or lets it break the lock thats holds all hope in place, like your backbone.
At least with a savior, you never have to fail alone.
Holding ribs with teeth and hoping to be saved by veins.
Hunger made a thousand fold when kept locked in its cage.
Carved "amphetamine," into a nicotine-hallowed lung.
I heard you shot the stripper twice because she bit your tongue.
Despite a vivid stain on hands so firmly clasped in praise.
The votive choir knows this angel isn't yours to raise.
Her clothes can't hide all of the bruises that your shame has made.
It's not the color of her lips, but it's the same damn shade.
He started panting as he whispered off a bible verse.
She started cutting as she saw how much her saving was worth.
It's so unfortunate that holiest is who's best-dressed.
Cause I don't want to get my blood all down your Sunday dress.
A crying shame, you use a name to justify
why I'm to blame for fear unmasked by faith and angels.
Dear God, why are you so hellbent on teaching me?
Everything, it seems to me, is just a cliche novelty of what's been here to set me free.
Set the price of entity, so I can resell all belief and make believe it's up to me
to be saved by your -
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3. |
Paper Thin
03:37
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Heavier than the sky, longer than the sea.
I found it burning on the blank side of your love's
constantly alluding, degenerative faculty.
Where all that you ask of me is keep misery company.
Good days are sedative only enough to relinquish the previous day’s idea of pain.
There is a peace in the longing. Somehow quietly suggesting life is promised,
if my teeth would stop grinding.
I can't even say my name in our love story. I pass over myself.
I am still holding on to jaded anxiety and a drastic exhaustive inability
to let go.
(I'm running out...)
I bet you find me eating glass for introspection.
(of rocks for my anger...)
I bet you find me peeling up my skin.
(to break all the locks...)
I bet you find me unattainably lost
(that keep me held...)
I bet you find me strung out by four limbs
(in my casket!)
Lest the wiretap defect my brain, the date is the only thing I feel will change.
I have lived my life unsure of the name that will be carved into my grave.
Most nights I would love to die.
So ashes thrown to the winds as far as I can feel.
I am every star you can't see at midnight.
White holes in black canvas, carved into nothingness.
What makes this life worth it? Aren't we all scared of this?
White wash the rooms and watch the wind chimes and dead birds
fall to the ground with an eerie sound distinct to beauty in melody.
Forgotten and left to die. Mind numbing pressure cracks the sidewalks
into the outlines of the bodies left to wash out in violent rains
like love for each other.
At home with love, regret, and hiding from the fear of myself.
Imbibing deprecation just so I can blame my health.
My fingers wrapped around the pen like all the lies I tell.
My heart has left me here tonight:
Less sure than death.
More dark than Hell.
I know you won't, so I will sit here and feel bad for myself.
At least from far away, you won't see where I hang myself.
A simple shade can't extinguish all the desert heat,
in the way the glass turns black with just a drop of ink.
I can do so little. Have I done it all well?
My scars are so much worse than what my arms can tell.
I can do so little and i've done none of it well.
I've been bleeding longer than my scars can tell.
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4. |
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Oh how your eyes see so dark in each glimpse of me.
A crow is only as black as his feathers.
I swear, I swear I have more light than what you see.
So read closely...
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5. |
Cloud Cover
03:51
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Soft spoken machines bow the center of the heart string.
Subsequent assurance, sorrow one day speaks of grief.
The remorse and the panic will replace the warmth of the
blackened and brilliantly cloud-covered sky!
As lost as your love feels:
I'll still remind you.
As soft as your voice speaks:
I will still hear you.
As far as you'll always be:
I'll still believe you.
As gone as your heart seems:
Mine will still breathe you.
I bet every single one of you would kill for the chance,
to use your voice and say what you couldn't ever since.
The tragedy that hurt you or the love that made you feel alive,
before the days helped you bury it, forever inside.
One day, after flowers, you will hear every story.
But it's best before I go that you hear it from me:
If this is my last night sweating out in my body,
try to assume knowing I tried, and that I'm sorry.
It's only right that the clouds look like anvils,
just before the rain falls and the dark of the overwrought storm builds.
Sun sets behind a curtain of white walls.
A sense of the urgency begins a violent spell.
I will be buried in a place called rightfully mine
by my love and its penance.
"Posthumous" is not a way of living, and if that widespread truth is belief,
then I guess I need another synonym for the grief that leaves me:
Wondering if waves are worth what wandering once was to me:
Sitting still, violently still.
So I sit and I see, and I watch the reflection of light
bend and mimic these gasps of breath.
As I hung to the beam of light,
transfixed on the reminder of what's left.
Just my body! Lifted to the sky, almost weightless,
by birds who carry strings in their beaks.
Where my death is as fluent as which way the wind blows.
From far out here!
The clouds rained breathlessly, and we breathe just as fast, if not faster.
But still stuttered.
As I flip through photo books; you come alive,
coughing through swollen lungs, laughter exhuming concrete paralysis.
Sidewalks revealing cracks mapping falling and failings through,
the same reminder that a single star at midnight is still light enough
for two hands to fall through and flip through the photo books backwards.
Like when we were alive.
But "alive" will no longer ever be home, at least not to me.
But the cemetery will always be there, a reminder I have nothing left to lose.
The thought of your eyes makes me homesick.
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Hearts Like Hell Indianapolis, Indiana
English Major from Riff City.
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