I wrote a poem, I'm not sure where it came from. I never just write poems. They have to come to me and half the time I don't know what I'm writeing till I've read it myself. I guess I'll post it but its kinda depressing.

They're here, all around me
whispering, always speaking
talking to the depths of my soul.
They laugh, they jeer,
my hearing hightened to their call.
Hating, loving, breathing the same
fingers grapsing, clawing, climbing
reaching to take myself.
From a pit of dispair, pulling
pleasures and life into darkness.
Eyes fail, hands group into that
cloud of cold fomality.
My face forgets it's graces
my thoughts dwell on the immeasurable.
The whispers cease, leaving cold
the quite that ensews.
My demons, being friends,
leave me with none.
My delights, simplicity.
Sun, stars, flowers, forgotten.
Rain...rain only
Washing tears, purging souls,
falling without sound.
Or, if sound, ears, atlast, have failed.
Closed, yes, to music and song.
But closed, with peace, to those whom
I have listened to. Voices no more.



See there. Told you.