Too late

When you get lost like that, you think maybe after a very long while you should call for help. The night sets in with those cold steps and someone's behind you, matching your pace you run.
Breathing comes out in icy puffs the whole world is blue
and you don't see anyone coming to save you.
When you get lost like that you start to imagine all the things you could tell people, and all the lovely, caring reactions you might get. They might ask you how you suffered for so long, so tough. Or if you need them to stay up with you all night. Are you still afraid, they might wonder.
When you're so lost and there's dirt under you nails. Or maybe it's blood, but either way it's filthy like the woods and the dirt paths you're walking. Like the soil that's sinking, and you're drowning. But that's wrong, because drowning would indeed imply that you were fighting in some very small effort. A kick, a scream, even the realization of your metal lungs being heated by dragon's fire as they cave in from trying to be less empty.
At this point it's just numb sinking, a sad acceptance of the fact that you're going under. But hardly sad at all anymore because that was last year's pain.
This year...or has it been longer? Either way there is only fear. That stark, rigid bite on your neck but you can't turn around. For some reason you're stuck in the childish belief that if you can't see it it can't see you.
The same reason you don't look over your shoulder when running up the basement stairs.

You're thinking of all the wonderful things people might console you with if you were to ever get out. And that's pathetic. One hundred percent, of course. But when you're dying you do like to think of all the moments you could have lived.
There's the owls, such lonely sounds at night, with the wolves howling loudly. And that's your sorrow echoing from the pain you can't seem to feel.

But maybe I shouldn't be saying you. Maybe, in reality, I should be saying me. Maybe no one else will ever think this, these thoughts. But I'd like to think that no matter how big the labyrinthine, with it's winding trees and paths that lead you in circles...no matter how big it is, or how small, there are others scattered around in there, somewhere.
Maybe I'm not alone in here. And even if there isn't a chance for me to ever find someone...

Even if it would take a million years I don't have, there is that small hope that I could.

Even if it's impossible, hope keeps you going.
And when you're sinking, it is rather nice to believe things could have gone better. It's sweet and mellow to think that your fate wasn't this sod-fucking-terrible.

That you did have a chance, at some point.

But now no one's listening and I guess it's too late.

Fear goes marching on

Stand a little taller on the tips of your feet but

fears goes marching on. 

Wonder how to put the words so

they'll seem a little softer but

left, right, left, right beats softly in your ears. 

Yes sir, I am having trouble

convincing myself to leave the house. 

For now that's a-ok, but

over my shoulder there's screams and there's claws

and do you mind if I run

run run

as fast as I can?

Swallow

Electroden down the miles, windows wide open. Blasting through the signs of happiness, we're all going to hell.

I suppose

Yes, it is hard. Even just living, there's so much baggage that comes along with life, and I'm sure after a while you'd love to jump on a train and leave it at the station. Move on, so to speak. But there's so much anxiety in just doing that. In leaving everything behind. Everything. 
That's where your possessive fears come along, reminding you of that time in childhood when you lost your favourite toy and never got it back. When it was gone forever and you cried because you loved it, even if sometimes the batteries would run out, or the wheels would break off, or the paint would chip. Because that was your favourite, and it meant so much to you. Even if a hundred or so other kids had one just like it, yours was special. 
That's when you're thinking about pulling out of the station for good, no time to turn back, and seeing all your things in a lonely little pile on the grey concrete of the stop. Seeing people walk around it, completely ignoring it, because it isn't their business at all. And then you think, you know, well it wouldn't be your business either. Even though you'd feel mildly attached to it, you'd have left it behind. Pulled the trigger, started the car, moved on. 
You'd start freaking out because that was your life. That was your little brother looking up at the train window with lost eyes, unable to see you. That was your older sister crying on the curb, having barely the ability to stand. That was your mom and dad holding each other, tears brimming in their sad eyes. They're all wondering what they did wrong.
You'd see your little sister tug on their shirt, ask, "Where'd she go?"
What could they possibly say to that?
She'd worry, "When will she be back?"
This is your fault. Your mistake, and yet, you can't take it back now and say sorry, or even, "I love you."

So you hoist your baggage over your shoulder, and haul it everywhere you go because what if you lose it? What if you leave it somewhere and it just disappears? What if it's stolen from you, from right under your fingertips, and you don't have the time to say goodbye?
You carry it tightly in your arms, your knuckles turning white. Always on edge, shaky. You're getting exhausted, and half of it, you don't even want to hold onto. But your brother's attached to your sister's attached to your friend's attached to your memorie's attached to your school's attached to that party's attached to that night. Cling, cling, cling, everything's roped on to something else, and if you want any of it, you take all of it.

No, there's a problem with all of this. You need to let go of some things, and hold on to others. But first you need to untangle the mess, figuratively speaking. Let lose those parts of your life you don't need to carry in your heart. I mean, if you don't love it dearly, why let it hamper your strength?

The answer isn't running away, because it'll either catch up with you, or you'll lose everything. But letting go is a complicated process that takes years, and years, and years. Letting go takes holding on, and having something worthwhile to leave behind.
So while it's hard to carry, just sit yourself down when you have time, or you're far too tired to continue, and work it all out. The knots will come undone if only you keep picking at them. And once those bad parts are free, simply let them go.
It is you that's holding on, but that's a good thing, remember. Hold on for your dear life, because it is dear. And once you've packed your memories and belongings into a comforting note to leave on, board the train knowing that this time, you're ready. Knowing you've gained enough strength to carry it all out, enough knowledge to know what to hold, and enough love to keep it all together. Board the train knowing you've done what you needed to do, and you're stronger now. And whether or not better things await, you can go to sleep, and finally get some rest, without nightmares just over your shoulders.
Because death is certainly the end, but there was a beginning, and a wonderful in between. A very intelligent stranger once said, "Every song ends, but is that any reason not to enjoy the music?"

I always knew

24, 25, 26.

We're all sevens and eights, while we're all nines and tens.

But we're going on 19, we're boarding on death. To get to 78 we'll have to die to make it right.

Sat by a pond. 

We get one chance

Fabricate your words in a noose around my neck.
It's working.

Wolves

Oh, he's a dirty little wolf, isn't it? Cheater's paws, long sharp teeth?
There's a fact in here somewhere, I just know it. Buried under his thick fur he's carting around his scars and wounds. And under those there's memories. Memories reflected in his wolfy eyes, black, sunken marble holes in the snow of his white muzzle. Ice cold, he's no king of winter. No Jack Frost. He is shoulders shrugging off, ashes flaking to the ground.
Such a dirty little past, he has. Terror in the nights when he was abandoned. His mother never did come back for him, did she? But he trekked on because that's how survival works. He grew strong because weakness was death. And yet...a wolf is a wolf is a wolf.

No, anyone can care.

No, literally

Poison darts my hands and feet

across the sky our eyes should meet.

Blues and greys upon the water;

eat your words, as you slip under.

But Raphael

There aren't words that will explain this any more than my thoughts can. Something changed. Plenty of somethings. In fact, maybe a few too many. I look for the cues, for those small things no one else notices. I follow social code in an understandable fashion, and everything works out for everyone else.

I'm too practised. Too...too sure, in that unsure way I am. I know what my words will do to people. I know what my actions will result in. I know exactly how I'm supposed to act, and I do. But it's all fake, really, completely fake. And every time I do something how I'm supposed to, for the basic structure, anyway, I lose myself a little further. 

Of course it's driving me crazy. Or not crazy completely. Not that known crazy where you pick apart your skin and run away, or rock back and fourth for hours. While those would be lovely, I'm sure. It's not that at all. 

It's Them. It's them them them them them. It's when I stare at you blankly because there's nothing left there, in that moment. I'm in here. And I want to tell you that. I want to remind you I am in here. 

But here is this fucking practised terror. Stuck in a nightmare of reason and logic. I don't understand it any more than you do, any more than anyone. 

And if you think about it, it's already fucked over. School became too panicky. Far too panicky I almost killed myself, and what does that say about me? I can't make it through a day of it. I already lost that ability. I already lost myself far enough I can't pretend that anymore.

And it seems like I've already broken down, like I'm already not functioning. But this is functioning past 100% for me, inside. Inside it's so much worse off than you can even imagine. And I'm just trying to hold myself together for the next, say...20 years? But I know I'm not going to be able to make it that far. 

It's a skull and cross bones warning label that you ripped off your drink. It's because we all age too fast and get to that sick point of delirium. Only some go faster than the speed of light, their skin peeling off with every second, it's so bad. And that's not possible. We're told repeatedly that that's not possible! But who are you to say the cause can't be what comes next? The effect is this, and this is all backwards, isn't it? Where did that logic go to? We miss it so, don't we?

But I don't. 

I don't, you don't understand at all. Neither do I, and it's starting to really freak me out. Yes, I am starting to hear you again. Yes, I am almost even seeing you. But I'm not listening I'm not looking. 

It's perfect, because after everything, this is what I wanted, isn't it?

But I would rather be dead than amount to anything, if this is what it takes? I would rather be dead and not go through this at all. This...sorry. I'm terribly sorry. I mean life. This isn't a cycle inside of life's cycle. This is life's cycle. 

There's yours and there's mine and I'd rather not have been born at all. It's so much harder to stand at all by this point. It's so much harder to even smile, and quite frankly, I don't see a point for faking anything anymore.

But I don't know how to let any of it out. 

It's like a balloon stuffed with too much air. Only the air is poison. And the balloon is a person. And in all logic, a person should be dead after consuming that much poison. Frankly, in all logic at all, they'd already be dead after a single drop of such. 

But they're not dead. Somehow they're still moving automatic. They're an automative, now. 

Tap, tap, tap on the glass with their glossy smile. Eyes unmoving, wax characters can watch you until you're out of view, past their horizon. I can only see so far it's not my choice they trapped me. 

Ok. So now can you please let me go? How many more years of this. 

I'm not the strings on my arms and legs, I'm not this at all. But why would you look further into a wooden doll when it's obvious what's inside?

Wood, wood, and more wood. 

That's not a person at all. And you don't listen when I scream, "PLEASE. I'm inside."

You don't listen when I ask for help out, instead move on, peer into the next glossy-eyed creature. When you see a puppet, a toy, a slot where you put your coin, where they smile. The card drops out reading your fortune, but perfectly, perfectly, nothing of them.

Look farther. 

The end of the world

Flaming tire's fall
when it's the end of the world.
The monsters come out from under your bed
your closet.
The insanities SCREAM
while the hospitals go blank.
When it's the end of the world,
people eat other, chasing after you when you're just trying to find shelter.
They're all mad.
But the game's over.
There's no time for tears
or wailing.
The world ended when you weren't looking
and now you need to die quietly, thanks.

Bloody bloody bloody bloody
we're all together
stung by the hornet
by the wasp
we're all cut, we're all tossed.
Drunk too much, we can't remember
how we got to dark lights flashing
how we fell down that hill
how we can't climb back up.

How we CAN'T climb back up.

Them.

We love you, They told Sophie, taking her porcelain hand in their claws. She watched the razor iron close around her skin, red lines from stress forming on the surface. She'd been listening too intently to her silence, and had, in turn, found Them. Or rather, They'd found her.
We love you ever so dearly, my sunshine, and we do recall that a certain game is in order.
Sophie feared keeping her eyes open, feared seeing their terrible teeth and leery grins. Yet she found it the hardest task to close her eyes shut even a little, even at all.
"What game?" she sighed, letting her voice spike to a whisper.
Ah, darling. What game indeed? There are many. Mr.Wolf is wondering when next he will eat, you know. Or perhaps a nice try of hide and seek, we have the greatest forests and grandest trees, you are aware, love. 
"Why don't I just bring some treats to Grandma, have the Wolf escort me there anyhow?"
Sophie knew their games. She'd played them her whole life. In nightmares, Folklore, Faerie tales. In songs she used to sing, in hushed voices like the wind. Every child knew these games, of course. These were their upbringing, being warned not to walk too deep into the forest, not to trust every sweet old lady. Evil Witches, Goblins, Elves awaited at the end of the tunnel. Of course, of course darling Sophie knew.
"So why don't you just pick a game then. Follow the leader off the cliff, Simon says jump?" Sophie yawned. "But do hurry."
They snarled amongst themselves, hushed voices barely growling. There was enough darkness in their eyes to ward her off, but Sophie knew it could only be a dream. What a concept, she mused. 'Knowing'.
How true indeed, our child. Nothing is so solid that it cannot change. Nothing is absolutely knowable.
Sophie glanced into their eyes, lured forward by an electric pull that shocked her entire system when she stepped too far away.
Dear one, we've chosen the perfect game. Do you agree to play until the game is won, on your own accord, so long as whatever happens is no one's fault save your own?
Sophie shrugged. "So long as we hurry. I do have a date with Death in a few decades." 
Then it is settled.
The larger ones formed a circle around her, taking her hands in theirs, if you could call their claws such things. Each one was different, but dark. They were like a group of ill-formed Monsters, all clothed in the same fashion, were that fashion darkness. But a cold, sinister darkness with a wild scent to it. Almost as if it was brisk enough to touch, thick enough to hold. Every single one was different from the others, possibly their odd-fitted voices, so soothing and light; possibly their skin, stretched tight over their bones, which in some, bent at strange angles that looked wildly painful. Sophie couldn't tell, Sophie couldn't care.
They bread fear with each step, with each word terror climbed up your spine on all fours. Their breathing was so silent, sometimes she thought They weren't breathing at all.
Sophie, our sweetness. What game would you prefer we start with? By day-break, we plan to wake, and walk you home so no one else may catch you. You do remember you're ours, do you not?
Sophie just smiled. "Yours, all yours, forever, ever more. My soul I give, my dreams I sell, to your knocking at my door. If I should die, before I wake, I hand myself to you. You are mine, and I am yours, for this my fate, I drew." The quote tasted copper solid in her throat. She'd drawn it from a cap in the hospital one night when she'd been ill with a fever. In her sleep, she'd read the words aloud and murmured deep promises by the moonlight in her window.
Well done. Now hurry along Time is precious, Faux-Lion. 
"My name," she smiled. "Your gift to me, I won't forget."
And together, they stepped into the darkness that surrounded Them constantly. The settings changed, and Sophie couldn't help but find that comfort in the rearrest place of all; her deepest, darkest fears.

Least of her worries

What once will almost kill us
will haunt us forever more.
What once will almost kill us
is crawling on the floor.
What once will almost kill us
is testing our alarms.
What once will almost kill us
is what forces our disarm.

What once sent us in shivers
down the murky city wall
What once had us in trembles
had us feeling truly small
What once was always watching
we knew enough to run,
what once could almost kill us
is ready for some fun.

Who dares to go right there,
that place beneath your crest.
Where family names are branded;
gold upon your chest.
Who dares to walk upon it,
test the waters with their ship.
The water's fire, the boat is wood
you wish you may, you tip.


To win you have to conquer,
through brimstone and through hail.
The storm's all blood, the mast is down,
the winds render you frail.
To win you must have speed,
and lies are quick to follow.
Monsters lurk where you can't see,
where your heart is dark and hollow.

But remember ever dearly
that it's possible to do.
The game is dark and sinister,
but your loved ones need you.
Your heart is hollowed, inside in
your thoughts are based in Must.
But love is what will conquer all;
in love, you need to trust.

Lucy's frown

Lovely little Lucy
had the slightest of a frown.
Every time she tried to smile,
the smile would fall down.
While other girls skipped their rope,
and sang their songs with glee...
Past her slight and ever-frown,
young Lucy could not see.

A weak and Wary Lie

Slight like a flower
like a wilted little plant
Swaying with the wind
the trees, and with the chant.
Slim as brittle sticks
freeze in winters chill
What dark thoughts lurk
under her window sill.
And upon her feather hands
sink wounds, oh fresh and old
Scars and cuts among skin's graves
too weak to bear the cold.

Cold like an icicle's hug
her smile holds no more beauty.
What child should ever live to know
that life is--

Forgetful minds let loose
the winter setting in
under, under her skin she cries
she cannot see; it's dim.
The water rising past
her breathing and her ease
the water rises past her eyes
her lungs p-panic seems---
panic sets in
with the darling winter
freezing out the warmth of
family isn't love, no longer
harmful thoughts are here.
Love, my dear, your life is just
a weak and wary lie.

The why

Do it for the look

that's just beyond your reach.

Do it for religion

for everything they preach.

Do it for your family

for your friends and for your cat.

Do it for everyone

that's ever called you fat.

Do it for your schoolmates

for your teachers and your thighs.

Do it for that feeling

that is falling asleep at night. 

Do it for your skin

that is stretched beyond repair.

Do it for your pretty face

for that glassy eyed stare. 

Do it for those hallways

that creak under your step.

Do it for your sleeping bags

so they'll never have to stretch.

Do it for your family

buying all that food.

Do it for those red train seats

so you can spare some room.

Do it for your thoughts

that begin to croak and grumble.

Do it for your shaky voice;

so you'll never again stumble. 

Do it for your smile and frown

for that perfected little sneer.

Do it just to know you can

so you keep it up for years.

Do it for your self and you

to wake and not regret.

Do it so the lakes and oceans

have nothing to render wet. 

Do it so you're walking through

mist and you are foggy.

Do it so the rain will never

ever make you soggy.

Do it for your art

for your stories and your rhymes. 

Do it for your little words

so dark they're lost in time.

Do it for your age

for your generation's rep.

Do it so you can walk

without ever hearing your step. 

Lethargic

Thoughts we'll hold captive so no one else will feel their sting.

Truths

True, true, true. Tell the truth, silence, tell the truth.

Whisper to the silence, it's aaalways listening. 

Wrong.

Tell the truth, tell the truth, be as honest as you can...

Quiet words scream no. 

Hushed cries subside

we're silent.

Dead silence.

Drop, everything falls, 

colliding with your 

closed lips, stitched tight,

we won't say anything

regarding that night.

True, true, true.

We're all liars anyway

at some point

we all cover the truth. 

Oh, we're breaking down

Gun sounds, bang!
Camera flashes flashes. 
It's the don't-look-over-your-shoulder,
bolt-up-the-stairs,
can't seem to shake the feeling that something's still watching you.


The gun sounds loud, bang bang bang!
You run, but you run from
not to.

No predetermined destination
overrun your estimation
lines are turning blurry grey
Bang, BANG DEAD,
concrete, lay.

Your head ...
your head hur...hurts. Your head is
hurting and
oh wait.
What just flashed?
Who was that?
Some bloody fuck brought his sodding little camera.


Flash, flash flash flash.
FLASHFLASHFLASH!

You cough.

They said they'd be ready. Be waiting.

Now they're on my heals and I gotta keep going otherwise...-oh, don't look back.

It's like heights. If I don't look down, I won't scare myself into falling. If I just don't look down...
but it's so high up and I'm curious.

With a simple analogy on life, I flee the crime scene, as always.
But I'm in no danger just yet. Wait 'til I run out of breath
to worry.