CHANGE

Change is.

The never ending

Cycle

Of regret

And hope,

Like two lovers,

cycling passion,

Peace comes

When you leave

The one

That hurts the most.

Happiness comes

When you

Embrace

The threesome.

Forever kinky

Is the soul.

my pen is dry, rusted,

formerly fueld by pain,

but now,

the skeletons

of my demons,

lay black against the page.

spelling out the ending

of my once and former rage.

loneliness is dry

and no longer salivates,

and I'm searching for an ending

that let's me recreate.

writers block

is a bitch

when agony fades

into peace.

and the last of my hauntings,

like char,

and stretched thin into letters,

and painted on nothing

except this imaginary page.

and if my scars are like braille

they will spell words of hope

and I will finally remember

how to read them.

and I will be grateful.

and I will learn to put

flame to page once more,

and save the paper with moisture

not made of tears.

but ink.

#onefortheflames

half smoked cigarette

and a few beers in,

watching the vapor snake

its way upward

into nothing.

and it reminds me of hope

as it fades in time.

fleeting and beautiful and toxic

like the cycle of addiction.

if only.

I could see.

the butt

as I put it out,

as hope realized,

or dreams captured, unlost,

or some other shit,

I'd see that whatever

is to be the death of me,

will have been my favorite

part.

and whatever escaped me,

was much less potent.

cheers to all. may hope be defined as memory

when darkness comes

reflections fade

like the memories

of ghosts

we seek to leave

upon the shore.

we only hope,

they stay above water.

balanced on the line

where ocean meets sand,

where recollection

tiptoes safe above

our demons.

but we can't look back,

because

we still believe nothing

has fallen.

and our escape

seems a lot brighter,

If labeled as an adventure.

when darkness comes.

we escape.

still human.

grateful to forget.

audio link at the bottom. I hope everyone joins. this was supposed to b in a challenge. I have failed.

sound echoes when

there’s nothing there

to hold it,

and I keep bouncing

between the banks

with tears that stutter

on the way out,

so I let them fall

like angels

ready to rise

as demons from the dirt,

and my dreams

are murdered

by the creeping dawn,

and I can’t click my heels

to get home,

just these dull thuds

that ache more

with each attempt,

holding a pillow

I haven’t used,

as whiskey teaches

me to bleed straight,

instead of scribbling

bloody messages

for no one.

and it’s me.

but I can’t read

like I used to.

though I have

enough scars

so all you see

is a grin.

hello. nice to meet you. fucker.

will you join me in the field?

we can murder roses

and lay them on my name,

and you can give a speech

about the tragedy

of my heel,

about the sound of me drifting

as I run from mud,

tripping over the crispy halos

I let break without a fight.

and when it shatters,

we’ll see havoc become confetti,

in a beautiful celebration

of wasted breaths

that shimmer on the forest

of my life,

growing fresh upon the rot.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1G6mDEfHdbl_4IDGJdvJtNwK3rm8Cvawa/view?usp=drivesdk

he bleeds out like

dreams rising from the brink,

traces of smoke

crashing soft around

capsules of monotony,

and he'll ease into

the tedious burden

of turning scabs into halos

for the fallen,

a makeshift crutch to carry

this splintered fate,

one lost in the shadow

the angel casts when

she closes her eyes.

For the challenge by Dream to write something new-agey.

she moves in like the tides,

as though the ocean copies

her little breaths as she sleeps,

snaking soft against me,

washing away my broken bits

like sand into the deep,

and I’ll build my world

upon

the fault line

of shore and sea,

where we first met,

along the line that curves

like her body,

where she washes me into her,

where I float without fear

of drowning.

because all my hope

ends in a dream

that blurs the lines between us,

and I wake,

to the sound of her sleeping lungs,

as one waking up to paradise,

one the ocean itself has copied.

and i think,

maybe waves can see the future.

and the high tides

are pretending to leave her lips,

and I hope to fuck

that I get lost at sea.