Here we have a little piece written by my own hand with something called a pen in something called a journal. That would be ink flowing onto bound pages, people. So old school.
Blue skies and the hint that tomorrow may not happen.
I left you standing by the lake,
I left you standing by yourself.
If you only knew the things to come,
then you would not fight the end so hard.
You would let existence roll on
continuing the pilgrimage, traveling like the rest.
I watched you look into the night
and ask the stars to show you the way.
You begged for answers, yelling at nothing
and curling yourself around these pretenses
given to lonely people by the equally lonely.
You gave into a life of mediocrity;
you let yourself slip into the unforgivable dark.
Someday you may see things my way
and you might even realize I was doing the right thing.
This was the only way.
Letting you flee from the horizon,
moving myself toward something brighter.
It was the wrong time for you;
my hands could not pull you from your rooted state.
Never forget the way the moon stood still
and begged you to give in and dance to its melody.
This was a choice:
to fall forever, to live forever, to petrify.
The brittleness of a heart so cold,
breaking over ice like stone.
I left you there where you could be happy; alone.