My yesterday sounds like a keyboard in the night.
A dying action creating failing words.
A bleeding of consonants and vowels in the hope of finding a voice.
A voice found and then buried alive.
His fingers move effortlessly, a memory in the night. My yesterday.
Common and lesser known foes. They come and they go and they go.
A burden borrowed is a burden owned. My burden. My life of strife.
They will holler at the moon and gloat upon deeds done.
They praise driving a man from his passion. And there his passion did lie for all to see.
A corpse of the past and ultimately what it really was. Letters… pure letters of opinion.
I bleed out as I wish for a nonexistent pen. An outlet to be remembered by.
Do I live for the moment or does the moment rule me.
Do I live for myself?
Yesterday I did. Today I do not.