The Needle and The Thread

The torture we inflict on ourselves with our daydreams.

The lives we wish we had.

The feelings we wish we felt.

The human need to feel.

How foolish must we sound to the stones.




Wounds cut so deep, that will make an opening on the other side.

Stitch through the pain. 

Stitch through the dreams.

Stitch.. Stitch.. Stitch..

The needle and the thread.

Of whats to come and whats gone.

Stitch through the heartache.

Stitch through the memories.


Till you can no longer remember their faces.

Their smiles.

Your name.


Till you run out of daydreams.

Of memories.

Of breath.


For the life of you.

For the life of your mother.

Leave the dreams to those who still have hope.

Leave the hope to those who still have faith.

Leave the faith to those who still believe.

Your only truth is behind a needle and a thread.

So, stitch like its your only religion. 

Like its the only thing you ever knew.

The War

My feet are telling me to move.
As if they have a brain of their own.

‘You don’t stand a chance’ they say.

But I’m known to be stubborn when it comes to things like this.

I’m known to drop myself right into something my head creates.

Just to count how many pieces my heart is made of when it breaks.

And I still keep losing count every time that happens.

The cons of a goldfish memory.

A rebel for risks.

But something else in me always pays the price.

Maybe I’m selfish that way.

Inflict more pain just to feel alive.

And then die a little every time.

Till theres nothing left.

Till I’m back to walking again.

But instead, I just stand still in front of my future pain.

Waiting for the strike to my face.

The strike that puts me down.

Its as if my body worships the ground.

But I swear it doesn’t.

Maybe its a Stockholm Syndrome thing.

I’ve grown accustomed to how the ground feels.

How its shaped with its bumps, cracks and all.

But my hands.

My hands speak a different language.

They get locked in from the war that goes on in my body.

Every limb in me has a different story.

And my hands don’t know where they belong in any of those stories.

I pity them.

I know how indecisiveness can be a bitch.

Why can’t my body just listen to reason and agree on one thing.

Some are looking for shelter.

Some are looking for a cliff.

Some are looking for the ring to fight.

Some are just lost.

I can safely say that the majority is lost.

More lost than they’ll ever be.

And my feet aren’t strong enough to move on their own.


I take my mask off and place it beside the ash tray.
And I play out my wounds.
I let them shine in the sad melodies that easily seep from these fingers once I touch those piano keys.
I let my broken heart loose for a while to dance around my fingers as I play.

And I see you in my teardrops staring back at me.
Walking away from me.
Running away from me.

I play a little faster in hopes that I might catch you.


Silly me.

You were nothing but an illusion.
So I slow my pace as I continue my sad symphony of a creature that did not exist.
Of a creature my mind made up.
Of a creature my loneliness composed.
A creature that stole my broken heart the minute I let it loose on those piano keys.


Broken Hearted

We hear it in the quite songs.
We hear it in the uneven breaths.
The sound of a heart breaking.

I can see it in her eyes,
her broken words,
unspoken but its there.
She needs those arms,
the arms of protection,
the arms of safety to hold her and comfort her.

She looks but can’t see a thing from the tears that fill her eyes.
Her eyesight so blurry that she keeps falling down.
Wishing those hands,
those warm soft hands would reach down on her to pick her up.

She knows she can stand again.
She knows she can lift her head up high but needs that certain pull to the right path.
Not the devils pull but an angel’s.
To regain the strength to walk on this road full of shattered glass and grenades that go off every minute.

She’ll get blisters on her feet but she knows its all worth it in the end.
She knows nothing comes easy
cause its “easy come easy go”,
But what she doesn’t know is that her hero is caged inside of her.
Right next to her broken heart.
She doesn’t know how to let it out cause she doesn’t believe in it.
The pain she feels is greater than that corner of strength,
It casted its shadows upon it.

I just hope some one shows her how to release that hero before she releases the wrong corner,
her inner demon.