This is just the start of something I am working on at the moment.
The day is here, and it is time to get moving. The sun is peaking through the busted curtain on Jason room. Clothes are scattered all over and Jason is still laying on the bed, he looks at the alarm clock as sees that it is 7:02 and he thinks he can sleep another two minutes, but then he hears a knock on the door.
“Jay, get up it is time to go to school, you do not need to be late.”
“Mom could you please give me three more minutes.”
“Boy get it you only have a week left get up.”
The train keeps coming, but nobody is moving.
I see the road, but I cannot pass it.
The end is near, but the thought of it hurts to be seen.
Love is river that I never like sailing.
This is all me, but nothing is worth caring.
I do not know how I am me.
This is a test, that I am willing to fail.
The act of trying is not worth the hurt of passing.
Tomorrow we will see if the bridge is full.
The rain is coming, but the storm has pass.
This is a tail of you and me.
The change has been made, but the time is still the same.
I called and no one answer.
I look to my left and I see hope.
I look to right and I see despair.
The thought of being full but feeling empty has become normal.
I can smell the roses that you cut from the road, and dance with the stars.
The house that used to sparkle now has dust.
The place that was a home is now just a place with no soul.
Having love for a lifetime has proven untrue.
One day it is here, then just like the sun it disappears, and you hope that it will reappear.
I am just alone right now and that is all because of you.
You think I cannot see you.
That I do not understand the hurt you have given to me.
The time in which you made me burn.
That every time I see you my soul starts to cry.
It knows what you have done, but not all you have shown.
This is the person that watch my bridge burn and offered no water.
The person that saw the oil leak from my buried gardens and laugh at my soulful eyes.
You are everything that drives me, but also everything that makes me.
The story is not written buy the pen; it is written by the secrets in your eyes.
The person has no name but one, the one you call when there is nothing else.
This person is you, or as I like to tell everyone me.