In the mind of a Octopussy;

I wrote this awhile back, but its for someone I know;

Hand inside the honey jar
Face deep in the dirt
Hold onto what feeds the pain
Then wonder why you hurt

A million choices in the world
Could wash it all away
But bitterness has taken you
Where happy cannot stay

When all you see is what you’ve lost
You lose all you could gain
Life becomes an empty shell
Pride becomes your chain

Love becomes the enemy
Loneliness your friend
Seasons come and go with time
This life will surely end

Regrets will plague you until death
No freedom to bestow
Reconcile the emptiness
That comes with letting go

Such beauty in your sadness
Glassy blue eyes
Quivering ruby pout
A softness only pain can bring

You make me want to love you
Hold you
Immortalize you
With the tip of my pen

As your hair falls over your face
Shadow takes you
A living sketch
Capturing your vulnerability

It is in this infinite sadness
That you are still
A prisoner to the eye
Masks lifted from the soul

No ink
No colour
Could truly hold your form
It is selfish

A want to preserve
Just one small piece
Something tangible
Beyond this body

Strike a match and light the dawning day; why does it burn so fast?
Minor pleasures spill between my fingers, let the day slip past.
What do I have to show for it except chalky memories?
The day’s sunshine, like nicotine - it doesn’t agree with me.
The last inhalation of it’s light, why does it burn to black?
Events like smoke in the dark, familiar, and rushing back.
Disgarded. Yet, I wonder how many are left in the pack.
Why are all my dreams techincolour, forgotten, then recast?
Strike a match twice, nostalgia cripples me; I fall to my knees.
When my mind is tranquil, recollections begin to attack.

Pensive;

Sometimes, we wish we were particles, floating meaninglessly, though hemispheres, like forgotten breaths, tickling the stars.
Sometimes, forever seems too short and galaxies; clusters of planets aren’t prone to excite.
As if the sky just hangs, nothing, but a curtain to our eyes and perhaps, darkness is covered over, with the stretching light, that travels from our past, or even,
our future. But sometimes, most of the time, we do wish, on burning balls of nothing,
pinned to the atmosphere in hope, that there’s something more.