don't take to arguing and we're quick to surrender

Lately I don't feel at ease in my own skin;
almost as if this flesh is made of iron, a cell
which would explain why I feel alone in a silent hell
where I never find, 'home,' in these ghost towns.

Faces and places aren't as I once feared-
even when these memories soar through me, relentlessly
as I trudge onwards, with a structure routine but God damned
if I'm to fall down again through Grace's sleek butter fingers.

Thought by now all would be swell, we'd be living an ideal
picture perfect sonnet, a romance worthy of history pages.
My charm though is now old and dirty, mucked up with filth by now
and your hearts' surely spoiled by a fools' promises and lies.

A tiresome energy is pent up inside waiting to be leashed on thee
but the world is now too old for my venomously constructed tales.
I wish that my eyes would still sparkle like popped champagne-
not tear up every intention with a suspicious eye that tends to linger.

Please believe inside of me there's a well with backed up tears' water
that's as deep as a poets' diluted dreams try hard to be.
My mind is like a fairy tale forest, I get lost when I examine my soul,
never able to find a way back to the village of certainty where it is I stay.

We can surely rest now we know books are just manifested realities
that surely can never exist- they're forged to make it easier on us
to find comfort in lifes ever constant attempt to create inferiority
inside of us as this desire to ignore others ideas on where we should go.

Now a pile of papers are stacked next to my bed and I am certain
that the tales inside of the manuscript our stale cliches
and she'll see through me as I attempt to remember what how to smile-
but I'm distracted as I pray I'll wake up next to her once more.