...

a frantic need,
to clear cobwebs,
brain addled,
with knowledge unused,

memories secreted away,
in unknown corners,
tucked snugly in,
into the folds of,

what happened,
did it really?,
what will happen,
will it really?,

destiny is one,
for fools,
the past,
for cowards,

how does one forget?,
do i not learn from the past?,
how not to remember the fall from grace?,
does not fear nurture hope?,

thinking animals are just that,
with adjectives,
am i not a thinking animal?, so
here is a thought,

a salve for the past,
crutches for the future,
befitting an animal,
kill the spider.

...

unfeeling,
answers,
undoing,
questions,
must i live?,
i can be.

...

some secrets are better,
left unshared,
some truths are better,
left untold,
some lives are better,
left unlived,

without the sordid,
secrets,
without the painful,
truths,
without the pointless,
lives,

there are no better,
however.

...

a really pithy limerick,
on apology,
passed through my mind,
i forget now, but
will a sorry do ?

...

sow this garden, of
hurt, and
distrust, of
love, only
sometimes, now
reap this garden, not
long, from
now, full
of misery, and
self fulfilling,
prophecies.

...

the pain is all wrapped up,
in the past,
there is no room here,
now in your embrace.

half-truths and half-lies,
hurt more,
tomorrow, when questioned
they are merely truths and lies.

claimed trust, and
professed love, mean more
when intoxicated, one hopes
to alway remain.

...

the answers are all here,
loudly spoken,
clearly written, in
soft whispers, and
hard nudges,

the questions however, have
changed,
overnight,
out of sight, but
all in the mind.

...

these walls do not reverberate,
with music,
nor do they throb,
with laughter.

----

what remain,
are these thoughts,
scratching away,
leaving bloody trails,
on decrepit souls,
that lead no where.

----

these walls contain me,
i contain these thoughts,
hope however,
cannot be contained.

...

the muse is dead,
buried, with
that which never dies,

these thought may be old,
the memories frayed,
the hurt remains fresh,

a million miles,
take me no farther,
than the reach of a hand,

grasping,
fondling,
suffocating,

let me shed these here,
now, let me walk,
away into oblivion.

...

one wonders,
when the puzzle's all done,
where is meaning,
without that one?,

lost,
gone,
misplaced,
undone?,

this is now,
that was then,
this is forever,
what was then?

...

the puzzle is done,
with pieces to spare,
weaving a mystery,
all their own,

swept up,
swept away,
swept under, and
wept over,

they remain,
taunting,
narrating an endless story,
without meaning.

...

we tread lightly,
lest the past be woken,
we speak softly,
lest the past be woken,
we breathe not at all,
lest the past be woken,

what if the past is here to stay,
despite all of it,
lightly tread,
softly spoken,
hardly breathed,
all of it.

...

what of wants?,
without needs,

what of lust?,
without love,

what of words?,
without meaning,

what of existence?,
without conviction,

what of life?,
without hope,

what of me?,
without the past.

...

if you let yourself go?,
where will you go?,

what we have is never what we want,
what we want never what we need,
what we need never what we get,
what we get may just as well be well deserved,

if you let yourself go?,
will you go far from here?,

where to?,
from here?

...

we refuse,
pretending deeper thoughts,
feigning greater worries,
what is greater,
than hunger,
however ?

...

the muse pleads,
for one last rendition,
of thought-art-imagination,
all one has to offer, is
love-hate-regret,
ineffectual capers,
of inconsequential lives,
the muse or me ?

...

(no){w}here is,
the fine line,
between,
suffocating life, and
breath taking death.

...

we strip ourselves,
of our names, and fame (?),
we strive to be forever-wise,
a mere thought, an idea,
our shame, however,
will forever remain our shroud.

...

looking at me,
are those crimson tinged eyes,
are the tears done ?,
or are these the remnants of last night's ?,
good times ?,

seeking me,
are true love's words,
are they your first ?,
or are they remnants of last night's ?,
good times ?,

the eyes speak myriad emotions,
the words weave a million webs,
for whom ?, one wonders ?,
did i not already last night ?,
good times !

...

we pretend to care,
as we move through our days,
that lonely old woman,
trying to make it to the next,

little boys and their refused childhoods,
girls that squeeze through hoops,
of metal,
and life,

we pretend,
of bigger worries,
we gaze at our scars,
the physical and the not so,

we worry that little itch,
while our soul,
soothes itself away,
as we enter the gates,

of our reality and dreams,
built on those left behind,
but mostly on our souls,
a little bit everyday.