• When the windows to your soul
    rest upon those certain other
    windows, you can almost feel
    alive, and your soul breaks
    down just a little bit further,
    and you hear that voice...
    Oh, such a monotonous melody
    to your ears.
    Am I right?
    Wait, no...
    I'm sorry, that's just me.
    Besides, the voice is more
    like an austere symphony.
    Apples fall off trees as
    much as this madness continues.
    An oasis would stretch out across
    a desert before the beast
    in my poor, withered, broken
    soul can be accepted by a
    society filled with mediocre hippocrissy
    led into action by none other
    than the lecherous thief of my soul.
    A tearstained face, a clown with
    a frown, the artist within the beast
    leaves no trace of a picture
    covered in paint, black canvas,
    where to start
    with this heart-breaking art?
    Burn the blank pages
    away to end the misery of this
    wilting soul, a rose left to die
    in the dead of night.
    How much more can this last?
    How much more emptiness
    will my blank canvas have to
    endure before everything
    turns to dust?
    Had we been honest about
    ourselves, the vile, monstrous
    desire within these beating
    things in us would be less alluring.
    But we all know that each of us
    have a certain order within our mess,
    a kind of peace within our chaos,
    a type of happiness within our depression,
    that deep within the turmoils
    in the confines of our skulls
    only we can understand.
    You may call it living out a life.
    I call it dying from the moment we are conceived.
    But only a handful of philosophical
    geniuses have a sense to flee.
    You said you wanted to see life,
    death, and everything in between
    from my point of view.
    Well, do you like what you see?
    No, I wouldn't think so.
    Damn, at least try to keep
    up with me.