Will there be a final line? The one to end it all when my pen drops to the ground and I reawaken as someone else in a completely different place.
Godless children running through nightmares, screaming the names of the ones who's hands ripped dreams from behind their eyes.
And it all happened at a time when magic could of been real, when hope was held so fucking close to life.
I look down to the ground beneath the one I stand on and birds cry for freedom too, in the skies we imagine they possess.
But us, wrong.
Sipping death from broken glass like its natural. Cutting through age like we have no endings. Spending every moment we think won't end staring at our reflections in passing mirrors carried by faceless ghosts.
We pretend time is timeless, but now is all we truly have, it's only this word in this very moment that matters to me.
And only I write my words and only I can ever really pretend to understand where it all comes from and what it all means.
But me, so wrong from the very start, before I even had a chance.
I was strapped to an empty endless page with the false hope that I was free to fill it up in any way I wanted.
But it's always just been one cruel joke after another.
So I sit as still as I can in the hope no one will notice if I'm either here or not, and I listen for the words that I'm whispered and try as hard as I can to get them down on paper before I either forget them or they cease to speak.
I don't want to be left alone in that silence again, I spent too long there and this is what became of me.
The hopeless poet holding onto a hope, that probably doesn't even exist.