Three Weeks

I wrote (half? of) this the other day at work on my break. The rest I kind of just 'opened up' about.

I know it's terrible and sucks horrifically, only have this here so my friends can know what I'm thinking about.

If you are a God trusting person, Pray for Brian Bowe to get better soon. He is a truly remarkable musician, person, and friend.

My fate filled mistress does not create shackles nor walls

but give her teh time and al of God's whispers

will cease to shine.


We are lost.

We are never to be found.

A futility spawned from chaos resigned to

torment the abstract nature of life.

Lost are we under she

who can do naught but kneed me.


Look upon your companion, your last bastion and resolve

and understand your abandonment.


The irony to accumulate friends and memories to be struck out

when cast aside.


3 weeks.

3 weaks.

weakness unto me.


This idyllic past time of treasured moments generating

a futile escape. You must understand

that ignorance of reality will not

merit a true disassociation from the horrors within.


For this, I could envy you.


Your strength, your courage,

your ungodly resolve.


Be it a projection, you cast no more shadows of fear

than would an empty pit.


I too envy a dying man,

though I only cower in fear.


My wish to give you that which you need.




Honesty, honestly, will put me awkwardly before an impossible judge.

You may yet lobby for an ease on the injustice, but for me I pettition

something entirely alternate.


My life for yours.


You're the nicest, kindest,

nobelist of man,

yet god still strikes to humble you.


I, a selfish, worthless drone

who shall succumb to malicious perversities,

am only to be stricken with quaint abnormalities.


It should not have possessed you twice, nor destroyed you once.

A cruel benefactor watches the good tormented, and the

wrong walk without impediment.


It should be me.


Take me, I beseech you.  have

nothing to give my fellow man but

heartbreak and suffering.

I, a parasite, while a shining beackon of hope

is slowly extinguished.


When is justice? Where is the benevolence who preached

love and justice? Not even chance is so courageous as to spit

on the meak.


Sufferage. We do not know our fuse,

yet when length turns to a coiled absence,

we can only being to understand.


Time is cruel.


Time, the often perceived yet impossible to allude mistress

to the Vicious Lord Destiny, Cuts the strands often short.


Life is a child, death the adult, neither able to perceive

the benefits of the opposition.


Take me, return the fuse you've

removed from the glowing heart.

Take mine. Give the one who

deserves life mine, as  will

naught but squander the remnants of my future.


My place is fruitless.


There is nolonger the illusion of control, only

the absolute status of the future. We are caught

fighting upstream, yet the current is both strong and riddled

with riptides. Some are disengaged from the conglomerate:

forced under eddies,

pulled off onto the bank,

and I pity them in this regard.


I almost envy those lost.


Once cast onto land, none can survive.

Perchance, they may strike luck and readjourn to the water,

but that simply prolongs the bank which awaits the rest.


Still, your journey up stream could strengthen a number to

swim harder, swim faster, swim with a vigor I cannot supply.


You will grant the world another opportunity, I to only deprive.


Why not me? I, who pray for this to touch my heart and remove

the responsibilty. I, who long for the dying breath to encase my



Why it to be him?


He is my friend. He, the spark of my future,

he to drive me to passion.


He is my best friend, and so cruelly we are to finally cherish and appreciate these

memories and our acquaintance, we are now to strain our hearts and souls.


Am I to wish attach faith to the prayers he accumulates? Am I to trust

in this 'loving' God the task of eradicating the vicious poison?


Why? Why? Send me a sign, though I know you are not to work in this way.


What am I to feel, how am I to feel it, how am I to express these violent thoughts

that have come to plague me? I am lost.


I long for the escape I know cannot come.


I am lost.


Three weeks.

Three weaks.

Weakness is my heart upon my sleeve.

Weakness masked in the presence of aid.


Three weeks until it begins.


May God grant you life, for these is not another who could deserve it more.

The End

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