As a writer,
It's hard to admit
That my art, in theory,
Is meaningless.
Words are just that,
So many times used
With no intention
And no drive
Yet we take them to heart.
We hold them
And don't let go.
We don't admit that
They mean nothing.
The things we should
Truly cherish, we don't.
A writer only knows
To appreciate that with
Which he expressed himself.
While not satisfying or fulfilling,
It is reassuring.
We should be smarter to know
That words can be manipulated
To create illusions of
comfort and safety,
But we still accept them
And let them take control
For they are all we know
And if no one ever shows us
How to feel real emotion
Then we surely never will.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
This One's For You (Piece by Piece)
It's so disappointing to realize
Something I've been fighting for
Is fading, drifting into nothing.
I'm most dangerous, self-destructive
At this stage.
I lose all senses and emotions
And push myself as far away
As humanly possible.
I cannot shed a tear,
Nor can any trace of my broken heart be found.
It is gone, silenced until the next one
Wakes it up with it's fake, short-lived
Unbearable passion.
I vanish completely
Showing strength on the outside
But I never show the shattered pieces
Deteriorating and numbing me on the inside
Each time breaking more and more,
My body is infected with heartache
Reaching and searching for someone to pick up the pieces.
And I realize that person must be me.
I am the only one who can mend it.
Unfortunately the strength of my sewing is weak.
So I stand tall, glue a smile on my face,
And pretend to be the strong one I once was
Before men filled with greed
And words more meaningless
Than I could ever know
Came to steal me
Piece...
by...
piece...
Something I've been fighting for
Is fading, drifting into nothing.
I'm most dangerous, self-destructive
At this stage.
I lose all senses and emotions
And push myself as far away
As humanly possible.
I cannot shed a tear,
Nor can any trace of my broken heart be found.
It is gone, silenced until the next one
Wakes it up with it's fake, short-lived
Unbearable passion.
I vanish completely
Showing strength on the outside
But I never show the shattered pieces
Deteriorating and numbing me on the inside
Each time breaking more and more,
My body is infected with heartache
Reaching and searching for someone to pick up the pieces.
And I realize that person must be me.
I am the only one who can mend it.
Unfortunately the strength of my sewing is weak.
So I stand tall, glue a smile on my face,
And pretend to be the strong one I once was
Before men filled with greed
And words more meaningless
Than I could ever know
Came to steal me
Piece...
by...
piece...
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
silent heart
Silence, some say, is beauty
But it slowly deteriorates
Slowly becomes that with normalcy
That we try so hard to achieve
Try so hard that nothing
Is ever enough.
Reaching for something
For strength and understanding.
If I fall now,
I may never
up
back
get
But it slowly deteriorates
Slowly becomes that with normalcy
That we try so hard to achieve
Try so hard that nothing
Is ever enough.
Reaching for something
For strength and understanding.
If I fall now,
I may never
up
back
get
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