I've written so many lines of poetry it all begins to blur.
Sometimes I think I can't write any more, and then suddenly like the blood in a vien after the knife has sliced it, all this emotion comes pouring out of me and I can't help but capture it in my fingers unto my keyboard and on my computer screen.
Life seems so much different when you realize that you were just an accident.
Life seems so much harder when you finally find something to live for, even if it's in desparation. I'm scared to die.
My heart has felt so many emotions, even when there wasn't anyone to share them with. It seems so embarrasing to feel so much love for nothing.
Embarrassment has been the one constant thing in my life perhaps. But there is so many other things, anger, pain, food, sleep. It's all one vicious and demented cycle of having to live day by day and night by night.
I'm too hot in summer, and too cold in winter. But I love the winter because it is still night out, even at seven or eight o'clock in the morning. I hold the night in a very special place in my heart. But only when it is dark out and I'm outside, it just seems like... magick.
I've been trying to rationalize magick. Sometimes I can. Sometimes I can't. But I still believe in it. Strangely enough. But not all of it.
Why can't an angel wear a trenchcoat? Why can't a centaur wear sandals? Why can't a mermaid wear jeans? Why can't I come up with and go through with an original thought? The rabbit runs and when I catch it, I will kill it.
Failure is no option for me. It's a way of life.
How many other people can claim they have glimpsed heaven, simply by walking around outside in the night? How many people can claim they have glimpsed hell, simply by thinking about their life as they try and cry themselves to sleep at night?
How many men does it take to please a woman? How many women does it take to please a man? I only need myself to please myself in that way. But when it comes to pleasing the heart, I'll take anything I can get. And with that attitude, I will get nothing.
Life is but a dream. So I stopped rowing my boat, and I converted it into a plane. But I sank before I could complete it. I didn't even have a hammer.
I know for a fact that even if I had everything I ever wanted, I still wouldn't be happy. And yet I try aquiring everything anyway. Without any money, it is hard.
There is no end to my sin. There is no limit to my shame. For I am ashamed of every sin I have committed. So now I've been committed into an insane asylum. An insane refuge. Refuge turned refuse. And that is all I am.
Garbage.
That's all I am. Maybe I'm just being hyper-humble, but whenever I reflect on who it is I am, all I see is trash.
There probably is a lot of good things about me, but I can't find it right now. Not now, because I'm trying to. But if I was in my backyard at midnight in the cool crisp night air... I'd love myself.
Don't judge the piece by its structure, or its un-conformative aspects. It's poetry. And it's deep, at times complex simplicity along with the overall personal dark atmosphere to it is one of the main reasons why it is legendary material. A Great piece by Necromancer and another strong edition to RBs growing Poetry Legends section. Props. - Camarac & Varentao
