you slip through my fingers;
a fleeting ghosts of memories--
time breathing last moments
broken by tears and screams
of pleas of pain and happiness

i loved
but now you stay in abyss
a fickering existence
frozen in the second hand
of the broken clock.


White Noise.

The sharp white screeches
blind me and I choke on acrid smoke
i can't seem to keep up
and everything is a blur
" can't hold on "
a tear rolls into the ocean
and i watch my reflection
fade with the setting sun.


RIP Mr. Riddell

They taught me how to hold a pen,
but you taught me how to write.

And the skies never sounded so beautiful,
except in between your decorated words.

I almost drowned into the ink-blotched pages,
but you pulled me out and told me to dive instead.

Your voice may be lost amongst the ocean breeze,
but your words will sear into the fleshy heart

f o r e v e r