I built a temple for you
out of hours I could not afford.
Every prayer
was the shape of your name,
every offering
the sacrifice of my sleep, my breath, my will.
Devotion, I learned,
is a double-edged worship.
It is holy, yes-
but it is also hunger.
And hunger, when unanswered,
becomes desperation.
I waited at the altar
long after the candles died,
knees aching,
heart splintering.
Your silence grew taller than cathedrals,
yet I still bent my head to it
as if silence were proof
you were listening.
What kind of faith is this,
to kneel before someone
who does not even notice
the blood at my feet?
To believe in salvation
from hands that never reach back?
Still, I remained.
Because love, in its rawest form,
is not gentle.
It is a tether that bruises the skin,
a chain dressed as devotion,
a prayer whispered into nothing
with the desperate hope
that nothing will answer.
They say that time's a healer
And many things will mend
But we are running out of hours
To sort it in the end
There has been too many bruises
Too much damage has been done
Is it really worth fixing?
Or should we turn and run?
The sun is setting,
The day is up.
Mission accomplished?
And what if it’s not?
Ran out of hours?
Missed it by minutes?
Need a second second?
Can’t turn back the time.
…
The same sun is rising
In distant time zones.
Got minutes to offer.
Now, ain’t that a deal?
You can pull it off
a couple of times,
so pack up you bags
and follow the sun.
My life is controlled, it always has been, what choices can I really make
without guidelines and rules to reveal the sun from the fog of my mind
when have i been able to deal with my problems without “suggestions”
when have my thoughts and my thoughts only remedied my issues, because to tell the truth I didn’t ask you, I can do things on my own I don’t need your help, if I did I would speak up,
I’m fed up with the advice, I’m annoyed at your condescending attitude, can’t you see I want you to leave me alone? Do you want to know what I would really do with my life if I could?
I would buy an apartment in a big city, it doesn’t have to be nice, it just needs a window,
a window for me to look out of hours every day, for me to observe the people, cars, and the scenery, and I would sit there in my chair and write, maybe a poem about the birds, maybe a story about a man who intrigued me when he passed, or maybe I would just write my thoughts down until my hand gave out, people would judge me, “What is he doing, why does he stare?”
but let them talk, I really don’t care, all that matters is that you won’t be there
There's a beast
A ferocious monster inside
Ready to release
What shouldnt be brought to life
Roaring beneath
Timid on the outside
No one will ever see
The evil intentions in its eyes.
Only a God can end the dissonance
Though one's yet to be found
One to slay the animals insolence
Lay his intentions to the ground
The desire to take innocence
Breaking boundaries around
Ones destruction is imminent
Severity will astound.
What a terrible drive
What an awful desire
In due time
Regression comes down to the wire
It doesnt deserve to be alive
But to scorch inside fire
There's animal inside.
Times running out of hours.
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