Tarsmus

One who has lost love-- (I am no tragic figure) --is one who lived life

Tonight, I am a man with a notebook hoping to change his world. But I am past the point where hopeless words and silly songs will move me somewhere new. The wind in those sails died long ago, leaving a small wooden boat paddling to any shore it can find. Just because I can say anything doesn't mean I have anything to say. freedom of the heart: slavery to the mind and defeat to the soul Am I beautiful Or am I a man with a notebook and no words?

If you "took the fall" Then why am I unable to stand on my own Are we trying to make new progress or are we moving just to move I said all that came   to my mind. Why do I still feel unsatisfied Life gave us apples so why did we throw them away to look for lemons

1. Waiting for silence to end is like waiting for your feet to carry you outside. It's not going to happen on its own. --- 2. I know it's a lost cause to try to build something from nothing, but I feel like following my curiosity to its end for once. Curiosity killed the cat, so by my calculations, after this, I only have 8 more times to ever be curious again. ---- 3. The funny thing about past arguments and ruined friendships is how they aren't funny at all. --- 4. There is a stage directly between happiness and depression I like to call creativity. --- 5. I got to a point that I was so ambiguous with

Trees cast as buildings reach for the sky, a ladder to heaven climbed by masses waiting for hell. l. I catch my breath as you take me through the streets, showing me what you have learned to call "Home", and what I have learned to call "Away".  Ahead we find an island of land surrounded by rivers of traffic and people, cut out as a safe haven from all things grey and all things dying. wicked winter wind pick up the leaves, clear the snow move them to the trees The melting stream calls out a lullaby of white noise. Flirting with the edge of the sidewalk, we stumble towards the darkness ahead. Voices call out to people we will never meet, a

The old familiar sound of the Westminster Quarters rings through the buildings, as an ominous reminder of the late hour. One, two, thee, four chimes echo from the stone walls around me, dampened by the day old snow resting on the ground for a brief moment before melting and becoming one again with the clouds. I'm alone out here, with not even the sun to keep me company, as I take a drag from the cigarette. It's not my first of the night, nor will it be my last. a blessing, a curse the ant knows all that it needs i hold out for more My thoughts come and go faster than I am able to catch them, flying over my head; a flock of birds heading s

I was on a stone. You were in a river, girl. We did not mix well.

I. I can sing and sing and sing about the time we spent running through the field of daisies, while ignoring the dead flowers beneath our footsteps. II. It's funny, how we can sit and wait for life to tell us what to do. IV. I looked to the sky and saw a photograph of our imminent doom. No one panicked or ran, but enjoyed the final remaining beauties VI. I can see all of the beauty behind the glass wall, but can't reach it. VII. I'm watching the night. A beautiful thing to watch time pass as darkness.

Bittersweet are the memories of what I had, of what I have lost.

I can recite full poems that I didn't write, but I can't speak my mind