”In a desperate search for words I am given a chance to breathe It’s the calm before the storm It’s my reason for everything I’m sharpening a pencil on my writers block To use when the words stop I’ll cut loose the cords that cut into me To grow some thicker skin and shed insecurity From outside I hear the echo of those empty words I’m setting fire to that place I’ve built for my concerns I’m not about to act surprised by actions when I’m desperate If you fuck with a wounded animal you deserve to get bit.”
“Loneliness does not come from having no people around one, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to oneself, or from holding certain views which others find inadmissible.”—Carl Jung (via toliveandride)
There’s no place for me.” a man of nowhere, a man of black heart from the dead end streets. “regret runs through me. i am no one, i am nothing, i am a man of defeat. what’s left for me?” he thought of those open roads, his mother praying alone, that vagrant anthem and the field sung hymns, the cowardice forever following him. “what’s left for me? the world has turned it’s back on me. there’s no place for me.” a sullen walk to the chapel stairs. “regret runs through me.” a hard pull on that white oak door to face up those fears. “what brings you here my son?” “i’ve been a horrible man. i killed my father, i killed my brother, i left my mother in your god’s hands.” “clasp your hands and count your sins. kneel at the pew.” and so the sermon begins. “no judgment cast down this day, will set you free. you are forgiven my son, you are blessed and redeemed. you’ve found absolution here son, but only from me.” “what’s left for me?” a sullen walk to the steeple top to look over the city. he carves his name in that old brass bell, so when it rings he can hear it in hell. one last look to that western sky, one last wish he could have changed his life. “i ain’t no wicked man.” he let his fleet slip from under him. unwanted.