Waterside

I often feel as if my life is an improbable combination of circumstances, I am just a plethora, a detrimental web of random chances, Amounting to nothing but fleeting glances upon the faces of strangers, that I'll never know. Put pen to paper, kid, and let it grow, because Maybe there's answers in that nothingness- that blank white page Is just the deficit of thoughts that reside in your head. The ones that never find their way out- The ones that fuck around, choking your veins The ones that itch under your skin, and burn. The source of that constant, dulled pain, The dissonance between the words you might say, and the ones pounding in your brain. Someone release that seratonin, that melatonin Because they won't stop growing, until their roots are in my throat. And I can't read a single goddamn word I wrote last night, Because this morning, casts a different light. And if things keep changing like this, I'll die chasing those chances I missed. Those decisions I never made, and those words I couldn't say. There is no silver lining, but the sun's still fucking shining, and why can't that be enough, for today? Because there is no silver lining, every day good people are dying, and their laws remain unjust It's not morning yet, and I'm lifeless in bed, If not for the slow rise and fall of my chest. Still attempting to elicit those evanescent images from my head, But their abandonment is far too swift, For me to ever grasp them. Dreams remain as a vague shadow of a vivid thing, Dream make reality sing, WIth notes, that shouldn't exist. So why don't you pull, twist, and spit into the empty orifices of this backwards sensor? Because your maker, Often wears the mask of your oppressor. And vice versa. Find a way to the waterside, And wait there for your eyes, To catch your own attention. Reflect within your own reflection.