War Child

Have you ever noticed how

When the moon is in its crescent phase

It looks like the light might devour the darkness ?

Is it just me and my hopeful optimistic bullshit or is that what everyone else notices as well ?

Maybe its God.

Communicating to those who are seeking.

Light devours darkness.

I have not thought about death in a long time.

I admit I was afraid of admitting that.

Once you admit something it kinda vanishes.

I hear you God.

I hear you on the moon.

I hear you in the wind.

I am a child born in the midst of a war.

I was born a fighter and a survivor.

Even when my lungs were giving out.

My mother gave me air.

My mother gave me life.

That must mean something, shouldn’t it ?

Everything has its meaning.

Seek and you shall find.

I searched, as far as I could.

I discovered death at the edge of the world.

And then I looked up.

There are far more things to be discovered.

Far more things to live for.

Light devours the darkness.

And I want to let my light out, devour all darkness thats in this world.

I hear you God.

I know why I am here.

I am a war child that will spread peace.

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10102000

Out in the ocean where everything is set in motion.
The waves, they crash, and with it my heart feels the commotion.


Up and down the way they move.

Round and round my thoughts confused.


How can a simple thought turn to a dark source.

The light illuminates but the screams are hoarse.


They say the only way a heart is open, is when its broken.

But the soul freezes, and the walls become the unspoken.


Grey is the color that took my mother.

Green is the color my skin had as cover.


This is the day you got your freedom.

This is the day I was beaten.


I know the guilt you feel for loving this day.

How the breath of fresh air came your way.


I watched you as you became smaller and smaller.

In my head, it replays over and over.


The sun

The wind

The heat

My feet

They are not running after you.

They are pinned down on the ground looking blue.


My blood stopped.

As my heart dropped.


Now, I pour my darkened soul that was taken over by this hole.

I pour it all down the gutter to try and make me whole.


But what if life takes its toll.

And the thing that gave you warmth makes you cold.


What if I had control over my feet.

And ran after you in the midst of your fleet.


Will it be any different ?

Will I still feel this feeling of false healing.

Knees kneeling till they are numb from weeping.


Grey is the color that took my mother.

Black is the color I painted the gutter.

The Sun and The Moon

The wind blows, and I am lost in thoughts.


Thoughts of you.

Thoughts of me.

Thoughts of us.


Galaxies wrapping themselves around my wrist.

As she wraps herself around my mind.


She, the moon.

I, the sun.

Meeting only on eclipses.

Filling each other with fire and dust.


I wait, and I wait till she circles back towards me.

Till she fills me up with her beauty.

And takes over my view. 


And I let her.

For being soaked in her, is far better than being choked by them.


And I let her.

For my soul is between her lips.


And I let her.

For my faith is between her thighs.


And I let her.

For she is the commander of my thoughts.


This is the story of the sun and the moon.

The oldest story in the history of time.

The saddest story in the future to come.


I, the sun.

She, the moon.

As I wait with fire.

She floats flawlessly. 


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.


Stitch.

Stitch.

Stitch.


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.


Stitch.. 


Till you can no longer remember their faces.

Their smiles.

Your name.


Stitch..


Till you run out of daydreams.

Of memories.

Of breath.


Stitch..


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.

Missing Her

I hear her in the music.
I hear her in the books.

For she is my favorite.


I see her in the clouds. 

I see her in the moon.

For she is mine.


I miss her like the mornings miss the stars.

Like the plants miss the rain.

Like the sun misses the moon.


I miss her in all the ways you can imagine.

And all the ways you don’t.


The shape of her.

Her scent.

Her lips.

Her smile.

Her dimples.

Her heart beats in my ear.


The no vacancy sign illuminates brighter than the sun.

For my mind is hers.

My thoughts are hers.

My soul is hers for burning.


My words consist of her anatomy.

The way she carries herself inside and out.

How many beautiful atoms it took to make some one like her.

Oh the questions I’d like to ask God.


And whenever you read this my Goddess, I hope it puts the biggest smile on your face. 

I hope your dimples go as deep as the ocean.

I hope happiness always finds you.

For you are mine.

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.

The Goddess

Let me talk to you about the one that takes over my mind.
The one that I see in the little cracks of that big rock in the sky.

The dark sides of it and the bright.


The muse to my words.

The high to my puffs.

The air to my lungs.


Let me talk to you about how she moves.

The way the wind succumbs to the way she sways.

The way the ghosts grow silent to her beauty.


The punisher of my darkness.

The ring leader of my demons.

The strings to my thoughts.


Let me talk to you about the way she looks at you.

How she makes you feel like your face is nothing but a mere structure of words.

How you somehow knew each other in another dimension.


The revealer of my darkest secrets.

The conductor of my truths.

The knowledge to my unknown.


Let me talk to you about the goddess among us.

Because the things she does

Her beauty

Her mind

Should be written in books for centuries to read.

Should be painted for generations to come.

Should be composed for artists to play.