A later can be mistaken for a week or mintues  before.

It aches to see a pain I can't partake in. 

The languages he speaks are to no sound in my bleeding ears

With scars that are locked too deep for anyone to feel.

My rain can not wither away the pretty flowers I have picked,

This seems like a garden of heaven that lies inside one's insanity.

I hallucinate to not forget the sorrow I have built.

Instead, I make it useful in various ways from freedom.

A form of waves weaves across the pages

That blankly blink in ignorance to my supersitions.

My leaves are the guide for many who follows behiond the path I choose.

Soon they would be burnt in rage from those who die in the coldness.

Rivers intertwine with my faults and the hatred of others around me.

I shove off to the shore as they drown their love against the green.

Numbness bites off the pressure I felt between my body and the air.

Simple things can be the hardest things to do at times like these.

There are different colors and their shades are masked underneath them.

My heart will not let the waters wrap my lungs,

Tearing it with soft strings aligned with its core.