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There is something different in the air. An essence that speaks the truth, and harangues me the sorrow. 
It feels as if I am really close to finding what I so long have been looking for. But not quite yet. Not yet.


The night is always as young to me, and never perishes. Drunken or just lonely, I sing with her my faults.
And I shout to the universe that I may have failed. I may have gotten lost and never trully found.
The response is that I have to live this alone and always lacking half of me.




Now I do not shout, plainly I watch my mind fall apart and come to place again. And maybe sometimes I cry. a tear or two, for what I was told I always wanted but could never have.


I learn that sadness now has colours and I see it always crushes you, the way only you could hurt yourself.
Yet, I choose the blade. I know my scars are made from me, for me.