Bound by time, blinded by love

Decorated in flesh; for this present moment-
And by the end of a lifetime, we’ll be unwrapped
Out of that box, as the souls to rise up to Heaven above

Still, I cannot sit and watch over days
That would never show interest to watch over me
Days have taught me that a broken heart puts itself
On great guard, and that which remains patiently quiet
During hate, is a brave heart always choosing love

And we could all live together, but often die alone
Mourning our memory together, but neither of the
***** secrets you’ve kept, shall be a burden for
Any of the living, forced in somebody's debt, to own

And all of a sudden, as I held the first sin in my hand,
I’d be cast out of Heaven for my sins. These stones pile up;
each one bearing a secret; I throw them out as pennies for
a thought- and quietly watch them all fall; falling in what
looks much slower than slow motion

I stand around so many perfect sinners; it crowds me in;
as we all go round, and round hiding our hands that
dares to throw a stone. I drew a circle, patiently in the dark
-as a droplet in a river of thought, that flows into a sea that
whispers so loudly every one of my faults

The memories of one’s familiar dark past, grows larger
once recognized; as like a shadow that is stretched
Etched? I bet; as the deal of all those dealing in their secret
***** deeds- so indeed, that a greater sinner does call another
sinner greater.

Everything is momentary to a monumental failure;
Monetizing the currency to a means of life
All in the means of life being momentaneous of one’s strife
And it honestly takes a lot of strife, to inspire my own self
To continue on to write — some days, it feels like it’s all coming
To be my very last moment, of forcing myself to inspire
Someone; anyone willing to connect through the wire
Building fences around the ideas we all seem to like:

We all like to be heard; as countless failures to listen
We all like to be anchors of advice; less the ones to gain wisdom
We all like the appeal of more life; dead cold to life’s experiences
We all like the good cards we’re dealt; but would prefer the odds
Of ourselves being the one’s quietly dealing it
We all like the idea of a superhero; something that supersedes faith
We all like the hope of us being connected by love; but what’s
A wicked heart, if it doesn’t sometimes love to hate

Everything we try to do, everything forced into my eyes
Shows me everything we want to do, is often just a waste.

These are not my tears; but just the remnants of all
the forgotten kinds of many lost dreams
These are not my reasons to cry; why should I-
cry any more, as there is always less of the time
For every joyous hello has promised me a sorrowful goodbye,
every down season, is the cause of a once crashing high

These are not any of my tears to cry; over things I can
no longer control, things wished to have been owned, longed to
have been called mine; as like these supposed tears of mine

Of course, I’m fine when I choose not to cry; tears are only
a promise for a moment and only in a moment shall any life
be gone- and maybe by then, as you cry over me, will there be
a place for all my tears to belong.

In their woods; there is a love that is hunted with all
of its goodies in a basket- basking on all that we could
hold onto; as your cheeks blush became the main
protagonist, like a Little Red Riding Hood

Beware the bite of love; beware of the wolf- for the
goosebumps you feel, is a breath howling at your skin
And doesn’t that make you want to scream; in those cries
surely caused by the eyes ******* you in the world
we live in; making you out as its meal

You are so pretty and so wild; to the tragedy of a love being
so blind- as your true blessing is softly masked in a disguise,
For even as there are people who care for you, there are so
many to despise, so many that are truly, and completely vile
Those that treat you like a chicken lost in the woods- people
only interested in the breast and thighs

Love is no fairy-tale- neither anything close to a movie;
though heartbreak is nothing of fiction. Love is sometimes a
crippling addiction; the oxymoron of us always chasing after love
My dearest daughter, don’t get lost in its woods.

Maybe I’ll love you better this time,
With a blank page towards this life- a canvas in solid white;
And not falling into feelings pretty much blind
As all this running is being done outside; desperately trying
To keep every shadow in line, through the rain-washed days,
I’ll catch them running inside. And as the wind so too blows inside;
Tearing down all of the displays in my mind…
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You get to finish the rest