And I wake each day from that same troubled sleep.
Nightmares just beginning to fade back into the darkest corners of my mind, waiting to reappear the instant I close my eyes.
Images of fear, of loneliness, and sorrow, desperation, confusion, and knowing that the end just may come before the beginning.
I stumble across the cluttered floor.
I hear the constant pops and creaks of a floor that has seen many lives come and go.
Holding on to walls covered in cracks, yellow paint, [...old] walls where something once hung.
Old wallpaper stained by cigarette smoke and refuse from the stove.
Cables running from room to room, our only communication with the outside world, or to temporary entertainment.
I reach a mirror, where amazement and disgust have taken up permanent residence.
Why is time moving forward, but I'm being left behind.
I've seen so many people come and go from my universe, stopping by to require what they need. And when it's all used up, I'm cast aside, where I patiently waiting for the next in line.
So I prepare for one more day in this empty [ri..].
Not a word will pa** my lips until I arrive at the dusty concrete structure that allows me to resign [..crackering ] old building with the creaking floors, cracked walls, yellow paint and cables that connect me to happier lives.
I do my deed, moving cartons full of things that will never belong to me.
Knowing that in mere hours I will make that long drive back home in the pitch black night.
That long drive back to that old room, where nobody will be waiting for me, and I will be waiting for no one.
That old [room] with the creaking floors, the cracked walls, the yellow paint and the flickering lights.
So I make that drive, on deeply [bedded] roads into my rotting city.
That rotting city, with the missing bricks, [myst..] children, and shredded plastic. [band-barred] doors, charred walls, and lonely foundations.
Busted fences surrounding dead barns.
Missing [..] sidewalks, flat tires, broken windows and shattered dreams.
That rotting city crawling with [soundless], a mostly wandering. most [pitted] streets.
Or sitting solemly under silent porches.
Slowly turning their heads with a deadlike stare, [flutterized power at me] as I pa**.
And the nightmares arrived early.
With my open eyes I see everything that has ever gone wrong.
Every failure, every false hope.
Every reach, every miss, every time I let you down.
I let you all down.
I [was..] going to turn out this way.
I must have been wrong.
I never [settled], you did.
And then come the images of fear, of loneliness, sorrow, desperation, confusion and knowing that the end just may come before the beginning.
And I wonder if it is worth it anymore.
Time comes, something moves forward, but my day remains.
Same functions, same conversations, same [travess..].
Same spotted mirror full of hate. Same empty life, same empty heart. Is my existence purposeful enough to continue taking up space? The end seems so... comforting.
And then, as with every day, I remember your face. Quivering [lips] barely able to form words, leaping [hours] to [..] to violation.
Having you crying there on my bedside, asking how I could have done that.
And that sick []room, [] in my arm.
And I see through those eyes, those swollen, bloodshot eyes, source of a river of tears, eyes full of fear, of loneliness, sorrow, desperation, confusion and knowing that the end might just come before the beginning.
My head is swimming, and I'm doing the best I can to tell you how truly sorry I am that this happened.
I was just trying to make things easier for you, for everyone, for me. So selfish.
And I remember how much you loved me, and how you couldn't bare to lose me, still looking back at me [silently] as the nurses take you out of the room.
You didn't mean to see what was about to happen, and I vowed never to let that happen again.
So I wake each day from the same troubled sleep.
Nightmares just beginning to fade back into the darkest corners of my mind, waiting to reappear the instant I close my eyes.
I stumble across that same cluttered floor, hearing that same pops and creaks, holding on to walls covered in cracks, yellow paint, [...old] walls where something once hung.
That same wallpaper stained by cigarette smoke and refuse from the stove.
Those same cables running from room to room, and I reach that same spotted mirror where amazement and disgust have taken up permanent residence.
Where time has moved forward, but I have been left behind.
And those same images appear, images of fear, of loneliness, and sorrow, desperation, confusion, and knowing that the end just might come before the beginning.
And for a moment, there is a slightly upturned mouth under my piercing stare.
Because, some day, I will stumble across that same cluttered floor, to that same spotted mirror and there will be no amazement or disgust, and no one to look back at me in hate.