Beyond

A world unknown beyond my own
Shall tease, and taunt, and terrify;
And all I’ve done, what truths I’ve drawn
Are there only to vilify.

Dissatisfaction

Dissatisfaction plagues my life:
It slips in like a knife,
And to a grazed and broken heart,
Whispers all the things that drive it more apart.

Nothing Beautiful

There is no thought
Nothing I can hold
And I’m supposed to be something beautiful
I’m supposed to be something bold?

I am something angry
I am something losing self
And if that is all that’s left of me
Then leave me to myself.

Desert Rivers

I should be drowned in rivers
Streams should flow of tears
But currents barely quiver
And I’ve looked away for years.

Both of Us

I cannot tell you not to feel
Or change what you believe is real
But I am not strong enough
To deal with the both of us.

The Only Immortal Thing

There is no translation
For the things inside my head
And no will ever know what’s missing
When I wind up dead
And all my books are empty
Because I never knew the words
And all I try is sickening
Because it’s never more than thirds
Of what might be enough
When we’re all resigned to drowning
‘Cause the ocean’s just too rough
It’s a fact of life
The only immortal thing is doubt
And if I can’t ever win
All I can do is shout
But what use is voices in a chorus
Of silent, desperate screams
And if they’re all that I can hear now
How can I not know that I can’t change things?

Immature

Does it make me immature
To always play the fool?
Does it make me somehow less
To play by your own rules?
Am I supposed to make it out
Like what is said is not a wall?
Am I supposed to never cry
Or feel anything at all?
No matter if I hear anger
In every other breath;
No matter if my father
Jokes of his own death;
No matter is supposed to be
Beyond my reckoning:
I’m supposed to somehow know this world
That I have never seen.
To know the foolishness of man —
Is that maturity?
If so, I’ve had my fill
And I beg you let me be.

Late

I arrive there later on,
Long after you have come and gone.
You assume I wasn’t coming;
It’s simply that my clock is wrong.

Intentions (explicit)

I’m not intending to be shallow,
But shallow’s what I am;

Phantom Pain

I wonder if I have a soul —
You tell me that I must;
For who would care to question
If they did not care first?

But the more I try to think of it,
The more it hurts my brain;
For what if all the things I feel
Amount to only phantom pain?