idlemickey

As I sit and ponder with pen on paper I usually realize it's just easier to type It's easier to fight than to endure or take flight While I formulate solutions to this never ending equation And develop cures For this contagion Only to find That the variables were wrong And the samples someone else's Maybe I should give up?       Hell, someone else might       I should just stay out of sight I'm safe, here in my den Not a care for how and when As long as it comes Either way, I'm never right Maybe I'm the one who's blind The one whose sanity is in question But, the world looks fine to me It doesn't twist and turn    

How was I to know that I've run out of time? All the clocks point to you. They've cooked quite a meal of quid pro quo. Only you're the pro and I'm the, well, squid. My compliments to the chef. How he picked me apart and put me together from memory and spare parts and skin tight as leather. How was I to know that I've run out of time? All my fate points to you. Don't fix me, I'm broken but I'd like to fix me myself. Why, when life gives you lemons burn them. Middle fingers up high. They've cooked quite a meal of this and that. That is quite true and this is where I spat. My compliments to the chef.

You cannot even begin to fathom the extent to which I miss you at this very moment. My first thoughts upon waking are usually of the cold section to the left of my bed, which seems to shape a perfect silhouette of your figure. Even with curtains drawn, the heat of the outside world still seeps through, but never manages to warm that spot like you used to. As I struggle to lift the comforter off my worn carcass, it seems to me as if I were using a sheet of iron to keep me warm throughout the night. Let me not speak of the night, as the only way I can make it pass is with a colorful array of pills. I go through the motions, the daily routine

There comes a time in every man's life when the weight of the outside world becomes unbearable. When the cup seems to be overflowing, and every little thing tips the scale. When he gets irritable when someone says "good morning". When it seems to him like such an insult, such an elitist notion to claim that said morning is good. Because to him, it's not. When a man, for reasons beyond his control or foresight, becomes branded as a center of negativity, when a reputation is built for him and not by him, he can only do so much. He is human, after all. Not a saint. Not a saint, or a god, or an all encompassing all knowing all seeing all power

It's no surprise When neither time nor tide Would wait for any man If only you could Understand I care less and less With each passing day And these walls might be Closer than they seem But I find myself wondering Why they can't close in any faster One of these days I will learn to be afraid Instead of dying from laughter Love is nothing But a game of war Each side scrambling For emotional ammunition To break a heart Is to win the battle But to crush a spirit Is to win the war I shiver at the thought Of what you have in store Your sticks and stones Mean nothing here For your words and thoughts Will cut under my armo

There used to be a time when I had no trouble expressing myself. It seems that time is, well.. long gone. The words of the contemporary English vocabulary never escaped me, but at the moment they've all run off to little hiding places that even my own average stature cannot fit into. There's a burning sensation behind my eyes. I can't quite put a finger (or any other kind of appendage) on what it is exactly. A tightening in the chest accompanies each clutching spasm, and that burning sensation seems to sear each and every tear that never comes, away. Just like cold water on a hot pan. I would say I cannot breathe, but alas, I can breathe j

As I bite down on every memory Same as the pain searing through my fingertips As I try to put together what you left Of the shards of my dignity How could you mean so much When I mean so little To you? As I drag down every thought Much like the pain swelling in me Somewhere deep and ignored Down to that same place where you belong As I brush away every feeling Like every word hanging on my tongue The disillusion of you seems to wrap Tighter and tighter around my neck How could you mean so much When I mean so little To you? As I turn my gaze away From every suface that seems to reflect That intoxicating image of yours I'd

This emptiness I feel          Is catastrophic For when my lungs collapsed Every breath I took          Was agony Why does everything I touch turn to rust? Sometimes it feels as if I'd be more productive as a paperweight Just sitting here by the phone Waiting for my pulse to          Skip a beat For when my chest was pried open And my heart left bare All I did was bleed And you did nothing, nothing but            An empty stare (It seems as