#200

Like The Summer Of Four Years Ago (July 19)

It feels like the summer
of four years ago.
The last time I was ever happy
(well, if I -ever- was happy)
and now it's all vanished
into the pavement right outside my house.

Oh, even the rain is like back then
filling the night with its echoing sounds
and the drops and the drops
dropping into the ground
resounding well into the morning
awakening me right before my mourning.

Good morning, good mourning!
It's been a while since I've said those words
so tainted with guilt and deceit
so foolish to actually believe
that I could run away behind my words
behind my rhymes, behind my songs
saying that it was all for you
when it was only an excuse I used.

So go on, keep on hiding
keep on walking away
like you always do.
Walk from it, turn your back from it
and head to a "safe" place
and stay there, even though
it won't make a difference anyways.

Hide behind whatever, you stupid boy!
Hide behind your blanket
hide behind your doors
hide behind your crying pillow
hide behind your bathroom
hide behind your helmet
hide behind your home
hide behind your streets
hide behind your guitar
hide behind your dreams
that you're never gonna have.

Keep writing songs of hope
and keep deluding yourself
that you'll ever have some
for your fragile, crying self.

Yes, like the summer
of four, five years ago.
The guilt in full force
the weight taking its toll
upon your unstable spirit.

Where has it led you?
Right here
to the same dilemma
that's been following you
for all these years.

And it's not a matter
of "letting it go"
as if saying that
will return everything
to the way it was before.

It won't be the same anymore.
I won't be the same anymore
and I'm just gonna tumble down
until I finally get buried above ground
and eventually, below ground.

Besides, the noose can always be hung
and the bullet can always be shot
it's just a matter of time
until you finally give up your soul.

And go above, to the clouds above
and hopefully rain down back into the earth
in hopes of find something beautiful
in the cracks of the pavement.

If only someone could save me.


VOMIT. This is the type of poems I wrote back when I was an angsty teenager.

...Heh.