O woe is me as my
Heart Aches
And my
Blood Boils

I’ve lived a life of talking to walls that whisper sweet nothings
Trying to break the wall simply makes the wall move
So I walk away from the wall to come across another wall
I hope one day the wall becomes a door

A knife in the back, I’ve felt its sting all too often.
How odd that this blade breaks rather than cuts. The deceiving scythe can spark flames too,
And if used wisely, can be used for good.
But is good created through bad really good?

As well as feeling the cold and shock, I’ve wielded this blade too. Nothing excites more than to see the bridge of trust shatter, to stare in to the deep and know that something frightening is staring back.

Eventually though, the darkness lifts, and staring back at you, is the one you deceived.

What is love? To live? To die?
To feel or to think? To let go (of those)
Urges? Conform or descend?
And to that I say, what is the heart?