Truth

If I want to, I will believe every little lie, every lie of large proportions, even the most unlikely lies that you could tell. I'll even deny the truth when you speak it and when I see it. But sometimes the truth is too blatant to deny, and although my ability to detect and accept and know the falsity of lies may not be in any way improved, there are times when I really hear what is said and take it as it is, even though it's not what I desire to hear. Sometimes I believe the right things, though those times are few and far between. But when it does happen, things change. They change drastically. Because when I at last accept the truth and deny the lies, there is no going back. Everything will change. Nothing will ever be the same. But change, as much as I despise it, is far better than remaining fixed in a moment, in a place, where nothing can ever change, where everything remains the same forever. It may sound appealing, but in reality, it is more appalling than you imagine. For when the place you are in is not beneficial to anyone, how then can not changing become in any way advantageous?

The End of Love

How can it be over?

How could it ever end?

How am I to recover

When we’re barely even friends?

This is my heart.

It’s been broken in two.

I never thought at the start

That I’d be crying over you.

How did it get to this stage?

How did we fall out of love?

How did we turn the page

When I thought we’d never move?

I haven’t really fallen out.

My love is just as strong.

My tears seem to never run out

Because this went on so long.

How could I stop loving you?

Do you think it could end so fast?

Was not my heart ripped in two

When you said that it couldn’t last?

I’m not sure what your feelings are.

You say that you love me still.

I’ve believed what you’ve told me so far

And now I just don’t have the will.

Strangers

I'm not sure how this came about. It's what I get for staying up too late...

Strangers

The strange man was there again. He’d seen him three other times this week. The man never spoke, just hovered close by. He hoped the bus would come soon. He glanced at his watch. Seven minutes. Why did he always have to get places early? He didn’t like this man. He’d never gotten on the bus. He just stood there, waiting for it, it would seem. But he never got on. He was staring at him. It would be rude to not say hello.

“Hello, how are you?” he asked the stranger.

“I’m doing well. How are you?” came the reply with forced politeness.

“Doing well…” He searched for something else to say. The man was waiting for him to continue. His impatience showed only through his eyes. His dark, searching, impatient eyes. He swallowed hard before he spoke. “How is your day going?”

“It sucks. That’s why I’m doing so well.” The sarcasm was unavoidable. “It’s going well, what did you think, numbskull?”

“Sorry…didn’t mean to offend.” His fear was beginning to mount. Something wasn’t right. Not right at all. Something wasn’t right about this man.

“It’s fine. It’s fine.” But it wasn’t fine. He knew it. And so did the stranger who had offended him. “Don’t worry about it,” he said and walked away muttering to himself incomprehensibly.

Relief flooded through him. He felt emboldened by his retreat. “Little touchy…” he muttered.

“I heard that!” the man cried, turning around. His face expressed his rage. There was no need for words. “You think I’m deaf?” he asked, stalking back angrily to the place he was standing.

He backed away from the stranger. “Hey, hey, it’s okay…” he said with rising panic. “Look, calm down. I didn’t mean anything by it! I swear!”

“Oh, but you did…” he said menacingly, then under his breath, “And now you’ll pay…”

“No, please. I really didn’t! Oh…Oh God…No!” He couldn’t even run. He told his legs to. But they didn’t listen. No one ever did.

The bus pulled up and came to a stop.

He raised the knife and drove it into his chest.

A scream of agony rent the air.

He repeated the thrust.

He fell to the ground. “Didn’t…didn’t mean…to offend…”

He smiled “You are forgiven, my son.” He walked away, wiping the blood from the knife onto his coat.

He slumped over dead.

“What happened here?” the police officer asked.

The bus driver fought to keep her composure. “I couldn’t stop him… Stabbed himself, then smiled and said ‘You are forgiven.’”

Acrostic

All this time I’ve been
Barely breathing, living, always
Crying out, searching for
Death, wishing for an
End; but none is
Forthcoming. Maybe it is
God. Maybe what I need is
Him to fill my life, or
In the very least, to not
Jilt me. He could even
Kill me, as long as He never
Leaves me. I have already
Mentioned that I want
Nothing more than death.
Old age is not something I
Presume to acquire, though I
Question often my own
Reasoning for the incredibly
Sad outlook I maintain
Today and every other day I live
Under heaven. I cannot always
Verify the origins of my
Wonderings, but I ask, is God like an
X-Ray machine, able to see into
You and me, asking why we act like we have
Zero options when He gives us so much potential?

When Opposites Collide

Sometimes the world doesn't turn fast enough,
And sometimes it's never slow.
Sometimes I can't get enough of you,
And sometimes I just wish you'd go.

This world is forever changing,
Yet often it's always the same.
I may not always make sense,
But I'll always remember your name.

Inspiration

Inspiration is a strange being. Or rather, a strange abstract concept. Because inspiration cannot be described as a concrete object. It is merely a concept. It is one of those things we can see the effects of, but never see it itself. Now the kind of inspiration I am speaking of is that which stirs creativity inside of you ( I feel the need to specify this, as there are various meaning for the term "inspiration"). The reason I profess inspiration to be strange is because of its unsystematic appearances and transience. Inspiration can come upon you in a moment, sometimes for no apparent reason, and, likewise, it can disappear just as quickly, often at the most inopportune times. Sometimes inspiration appears at inopportune times as well, such as when you do not currently have the time or means to express the creativity which has been stirred inside of you by whatever it was (or perhaps in some cases, nothing at all) that inspired you. Sometimes you are inspired by something, and then at a later time, when seeking inspiration, turn back to this original inspiration, however none is forthcoming. It is not systematic. Although you can at times "find" inspiration when intentionally seeking it, it is a difficult end to achieve, or at the least, this is what I have witnessed from my experiences and encounters with inspiration. It is always changing. What inspired you once may never inspire you again. What has never inspired you, though you have been witness to it a thousand times, may suddenly on the one thousand and first time inspire you more than anything ever has before. And sometimes you may find that no specific object, occurrence, or thought seemingly gives you inspiration; it is simply suddenly there. This is what I have found to be the nature of inspiration. It cannot always be pinned down. It is there, and then it is gone. Its appearance and disappearance cannot be satisfactorily explained. In fact, I am not sure anything about it can be satisfactorily explained. Not for me anyway. This was merely an attempt on my part to explain something which I find to be strange and inexplicable.

Over Thought

I'm tired of this over thinking,
This reliving in my mind.
An escape I must find
From these crippling thoughts that bind
Me to this very spot.
This doesn't have to be my lot
And if I stay I will be caught -
Trapped inside my head,
Replaying all the words I've said,
Until I'm gone and dead.

This isn't what I sought;
Peace is what I thought
My thinking could have brought.
Overwhelmed am I
By all these tears I cry.
All I can do is try
To make these thoughts leave me,
But that is never easy
When you're addicted to your thinking.