Without a Life to Live

Lying plainly, writing poorly, with heat of envy on your cheek;

Staring sour, wishing dour, while smiling fake in your sleep,

Aloft a cloud in a solemn facade, wandering in your tainted way;

Writing lists of course and courage as you watch the crumbling days

Bending to the wind of pleasure in your cold, collected play.

You sing of harpies in your head; a feather without a home

Is a sad and sullen image; these monsters that you call your own

Listen to your every cry as the night takes your pain away,

Step through cold corners and warm rooms in their stay,

Watch the borders of your mind, counting wolves and blooded sheep,

Taking what they please away, choosing this and that to keep.

Hate isn't passion, it's a shallow writhing through your veins,

Love isn't empty, it's a mark of trust that leaves a stain;

Jealously is a lie,

But without it, certain things would change.

You'd never call across the ocean to that something that you need,

You'd never search the shattered rocks, never caring if you bleed,

Never opening the earth to finally plant a dying seed.

Yet, it came as no surprise when I finally slipped away.

You'd stolen far above the line, and in the light I couln't pay.

The dying roots that you pulled from my chest began to burn;

You said, "Without a life to live, your world will never turn."