From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were—I have not seen As others saw—I could not bring My passions from a common spring— From the same source I have not taken My sorrow—I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone— And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone— Then—in my childhood—in the dawn Of a most stormy life—was drawn From ev’ry depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still— From the torrent, or the fountain— From the red cliff of the mountain— From the sun that ’round me roll’d In its autumn tint of gold— From the lightning in the sky As it pass’d me flying by— From the thunder, and the storm— And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view— BY EDGAR ALLEN POE
Stomach churning, stiff neck,
Sunday funday sunday sad day.
Grey echoes in the air,
Lonely yet needing to be alone.
Speaking through closed doors,
The world pries with shadowy fingers.
Nothing is wrong. Everything is wrong.
Don’t ask, please.
I don’t have the reasons, and you don’t have the answers.
A voice within a voice within a voice,
Can you hear my silence?
and don’t ask me.
STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT
Can’t you see you’re making it worse?
Oh, Little Star
How far there is to fall.
Your eyes shine with life;
But the sky is darker than black,
And the light is fading.
Do not fear;
The end will come anyway.