to write your own

in the fog of war
nothing seems clear
only skies above the mess
who created the fire
in hell living desires
lost souls going up
never mind the clear day

For the awe of these eyes
There are thousands of admirers
Behind these eyes
There are thousands of fables
You are not the only one
Entrapped in a trance
There are thousands
Walking in reverie
You talk of a flare
For an eternal burning candle

I am the muted utter
I am the desiccated tear
I am the chortled mockery
I am the eternal eclipse
I am the ache in the pain
I am the gloom of the dark
I am the seclusion in the heart
I am the vague blot in the verve
I am the marred hollow
I am the suicidal thought
I am the apprehended soul
I am

In augmented tension, I exist
In mounted disquiet, I ensue
In dejected psyche, I intuit
In restive darkness, I subsist
In suicidal scheme, I deduce
In enervated reverie, I prod
In dirge hex, I intone
In banter gist, I befall
In asylum inveigled, I invite
In forsaken deceive, I breed
In melancholic phantom, I mimic
The irrevocable, I

The crying in the background provides the perfect montage to any writer who wishes to make sense of any idea and turn them into words. Not an easy task I must add. If you have children you know exactly what I am talking about and there is no need for me to go into details [...]