more journal fuckery

the tides of time are working their magic.
sending me out of my sun spot and back into orbit
among the cold, unteathered, pressurized space,
the winds spreading the seeds of change
are one again planting sprouts
created many seasons past.

I may not be marginal, but I sure can't agree
with the confines of my mind.
the spaces between the hard work and sacrifice
those places i was told to enjoy,
simply because they are so fleeting.

my hand grows tired from holding the pen,
my brain turns against me because I have
what ive always dreamed of
the quintessential human, killing and disposing
of his own desires,
because the projected images
are not enough.

my buried  sense of self hatred
is once again sticking it's decomposed hands
through the wilting, annual flowers
smelling blood.

I am back.
dead as ever, decomposed like never before,
and not smelling of compost.
If I could wake myself from this horrid nightmare,
leading my love to a breath taking cliff,
and pushing her off, like i never wanted to.

I would,
but like my previous pilot, conductor lives,
I was meant to take us both.

Our separation is  merely your survival instinct,
sensing an emotional murderer in your midst,
but some times,
you have to believe,
we're better together....