I am not awake, yet I am not asleep
I am not awake, yet I am not asleep.
Tears drip onto asphalt, but they do not vanish.
The asphalt stays stained with misery, a canvas painted in teardrops.
People walk upon it, oblivious to the painful secrets contained inside of its minuscule crevices.
Maybe I am not the lone crier.
Maybe I am not the sole stainer of pavements.
Perhaps the people aren’t walking on only my tears, but their own.
Perhaps that is why they return to walk across them again, in a never ending cycle of memories.
Memories of torturous thought and piercing cries echoing across streets, coloring life with distress’s stabbing brushes.
I am still young, a child of a world no one can truly belong in.
As what is belonging, if destiny’s tapestries are so intertwined with each other that it’s impossible to decipher their elaborate patterns?
I am not a glass half full but a glass half empty, for fate itself has abandoned me in a palette of destruction, its emptiness calling to souls left untouched by an artist’s gentle brush.
I once wished I could ignite passion’s fire in my heart, yet whatever spark I could create got extinguished by the frigid breath of jealousy, for I have not been born a lover.
For how can one be a lover if one does not have anyone to love?
I am not awake, yet I am not asleep.
I am regretful of my past furies, yet they shape me with humanity’s grey clay.
For as much as I am mindful, I cannot escape life’s maze of betrayals and lies.
Past regrets can only mean so much, until forgetfulness steals them from the soul’s mourning grasp.
They voyage through my body in a halo of regret, burning everything in their paths.
They do not care, for destruction is the consequence of unforgiving sin.
I am not awake, yet I am not asleep.
Tears drip onto asphalt, but they do not vanish.
The asphalt stays stained with misery, a canvas painted in teardrops.
People walk upon it, oblivious to the painful secrets contained inside of its minuscule crevices.
Maybe I am not the lone crier.
Maybe I am not the sole stainer of pavements.
Perhaps the people aren’t walking on only my tears, but their own.
Perhaps that is why they return to walk across them again, in a never ending cycle of memories.
Memories of torturous thought and piercing cries echoing across streets, coloring life with distress’s stabbing brushes.
I am still young, a child of a world no one can truly belong in.
As what is belonging, if destiny’s tapestries are so intertwined with each other that it’s impossible to decipher their elaborate patterns?
I am not a glass half full but a glass half empty, for fate itself has abandoned me in a palette of destruction, its emptiness calling to souls left untouched by an artist’s gentle brush.
I once wished I could ignite passion’s fire in my heart, yet whatever spark I could create got extinguished by the frigid breath of jealousy, for I have not been born a lover.
For how can one be a lover if one does not have anyone to love?
I am not awake, yet I am not asleep.
I am regretful of my past furies, yet they shape me with humanity’s grey clay.
For as much as I am mindful, I cannot escape life’s maze of betrayals and lies.
Past regrets can only mean so much, until forgetfulness steals them from the soul’s mourning grasp.
They voyage through my body in a halo of regret, burning everything in their paths.
They do not care, for destruction is the consequence of unforgiving sin.
I am not awake, yet I am not asleep.