Saturday, August 27, 2011


Many a times have I heard,

a familiar someone mutter:

words of pain, words of wonder,

Words that make me wish

I weren't who I am,

and I wouldn't

who I could be...

I could tell you tales

You wouldn't believe,

I could tell you

That I'm not me,

I'd rather hide it

behind my vanity

else you'd call me demented.

But there's this voice,

at the back of my head,

that whispers things,

instructs me to paint

my world red...

with tools of choice,

and words to persuade.

I have lived on the edge,

daring myself to go further.

I have looked down that cliff

holding myself back,

just an inch, and a hundred feet

only a fickle nudge,

and I'm only a memory...

The voice dares me

to stop holding on,

and it grows more able,

while it takes over me,

and I slowly realize,

on a not-so-far away day,

I'll cease to exist, and