Spark, Flame, and Ashes.What has turned to ashes was once burning,
In a campfire or crematorium,
It's all the same in the end.
What is lost was once in love,
Sharing secrets no one knows,
Some should have been taken to the grave.
I should have known
Never to let our lips touch,
Never to share those tightly held lies.
All disguised by the feelings
Never truly revealing the truth inside.
We were never really saying much at all.
What has turned to smoke was once burning
In a lit cigarette or candle flame.
It still aches to say your name.
What is hurt was once love,
Turned sour by realizations,
That sometimes things just burn away.
I should have never stayed.
Going Blank.Here's a blank page.
And it's been so long since I've written that I have no idea what to do with it.
The little blinking line is tapping it's toe against the pixels impatiently.
It's waiting for something.
It's waiting for me.
And so is my therapist, she'll be waiting. Not yet, but she will be by 3:35.
It doesn't matter because trust me, I've been wasting more than five minutes of her time,
But she'll be waiting nonetheless.
She'll charge me in currency,
Thought I'm the one doing all the hard work of spilling my soul to her.
And trust me, it does spill, right from my eye sockets and onto the floor.
Her office is a harbor and I'm crying the ocean.
Maybe I'm just taking on water.
I mean half the time I don't have a clue what I'm even crying about.
But she does so I guess that means something.
But she can't bring the old me back.
She can't write my poems for me.
She can't paint my paintings or bring back my creativity.
She can't tell my jokes or smile my smile.
And neither can I anymore.
I guessI’ve been known to make mountains out of molehills.
I’m often spotted hiding from the truth,
Like an ostrich with its head in the sand.
It’s like Dr. Phil and Animal Planet all in one.
My own personal TV channel, filled partly with static,
Partly with panic, and partly with empty.
You know, everything is filled with empty,
But even empty is filled with something I guess.
At least that’s what they tell me in my science classes,
Something, something; empty glasses are always full.
Full of air, and air is filled with gasses and gasses are filled with particles.
Particles are made of stuff. Lots of tiny stuff I guess.
Even light is made of particles, particles that behave like waves,
Cause they just can’t decide I guess.
Those particles, photons, wavelengths, flood the room.
They’re floating, undecided, from this TV screen.
If it weren’t for this hurt maybe I could shine.
Maybe my cells would turn into particles of light, moving as a wave;