Choosing a side in the game of love is useless in all aspects.
For there is nothing more devious than a player at his best
Yet there is nothing more heartening than the victim of an absent hearted demon...
This must mean the game stays at an eternal stalemate of deliberate solemn cries.

No more anger, no more tears
No more lies, no more fears.

Sounds Like heaven, right.
If it exists, that's where I hope I'm heading.

maybe I am bedeviled by thoughts of you everytime my mind slips into the abyss, maybe that's the reason I don't tap into it the way I used to.
But If I told you how I felt, it'd get swept under the rug.

Suppose my eyes burn behind these creme- thick glasses everytime I see you, suppose I hate the silence and fight the urge to burn my surroundings with the heat behind my eyes.
But if I told anyone what I saw, it'd get swept under the rug.

Imagine I listen to music and hear your voice, so I claw my headphones out like they were ice seeping into my skull and freezing my cranium with words oh so soothing as a double-edged blade sinking both ends into me, Imagine a tear escaping my eyes, voice raising in a blatant attempt to ease the pain.
But If I said a word about what I hear, it'd get...... well, I think you know what'd happen.
Lets dig under that rug, four feet by four feet area of infinite emptiness.
Half of my life has been hidden in there: emotions, mental, thoughts, pains, lusts, curiosities, questions, intents, past, present and future, all have been hidden under that rug.
It's stitches are one with my soul because it has so many of my confessions that it absorbs part of my soul.
I trust that rug more than I trust some of the hoes I claimed to trust from day one.
I trust that rug more than I trust some of the friends I've had since meeting.
That rug has an affinity for gaining people's trusts, like me.
That rug produces more positive vibes than power chords produce energy, and yet we wonder why something being swept under the rug is a bad thing.
I sweep myself under the rug because I know I'll be safe there. I know that with all the thoughts and emotions I share, that with that safe haven, I am assured.
I rest under the rug, I cry under the rug, I sleep under the rug.
As it is my home.
And I love it's sincere serenity.

No emotions.
No pains.
No love.
Just emptiness. Maybe it was heart break, maybe not. But I'm chill with it at first...
Then my brain goes numb.
and my body quivers in public, me trying to play it off. But I know what it is.
My emotions, my anger, my love
all coming back to me.

My phone rings at two in the morning, it can only be one person.
I listen to her newest trouble with him and hear her sobs in my ear.
Only when the sun stung her skin would her tears dry this day.
She would wait for him, listening to him lie to her and she would cry to me about his mistrust.
She never broke that cycle, though she was a broken heart.
The next night doesn't change, she cries about his newest issue and how she wishes she could leave him. But she's too close to him to see the possibility of even her own words.
"Leave him", I said, "he doesn't deserve you. Any man would rather be dead than play with your heart." I told her. But she wasn't hearing it.
I was tired of hearing her sob stories, I wanted her to do something to get out of this. No more anger, no more crying, no more sorrow, only happiness.
I wanted her to see a life without him.
But she didn't see that vision, so I had to let her go. But I couldn't, I would always stay her shoulder to cry on and she knew it. So the cycle continued.
But now it's five in the morning and no call....
I take it as a sign of happiness and let it alone.
Now its seven and I'm confused, she would've called by now at least to wish me a good morning.
it's nine at night and I call again, wanting to hear her voice again, but she doesn't pick up.
I call again, in a panic, she would never reject my call. I call again and again until it's nearly eleven PM and she still doesn't pick up.
My phone dings with the notification of a facetime request. I pick up and just stare at her.
Eyes blood shot
dried lines of tears on her cheeks
and her mouth pursed in a way to show she was about to cry again.
She doesn't look at the screen, she only puts her head down and lets out a deep emotion felt sigh before speaking.
"I love you too much not to have you here at this time. I'm sorry, please forgive me." She says.
What are you talking about? what's the problem, why arent you picking up the phone? All these questions and she doesn't answer one. She only puts the phone down and levels it so I can see her. A gun is on her bed now, she picks it up and raises it to her head. I'm screaming now. I'm trying to talk her out of it but she cries and pulls the trigger in front of me.
I jolt up in shock. My fear taking hold as my eyes pour water and I can do nothing but yell and cry.

It's six in the morning, police find her body on the floor of her apartment with all evidence pointing to her suicide.
She was broken. Her mind not her own and her love to one who played her one too many times, she became a killer.
They found her, but what they hadn't known was that she had killed another that night.
What they didn't know is that she was heartbroken in every possible way and that her hunger for revenge grew everytime she saw his face.
What they didn't know was that she was too weak.
What they didn't know was that she couldn't survive the broken years.

Winter cherries
My heart is one of warmth and color, but a rarity in all aspects.
Like winter cherries
Sweetheart swarms in sudden bursts of imagination, stopping my heart and purifying the air with each breath she takes.
Never has the silence sounded so sweet as when it comes from her.
Never has invisibility been so noticeable as when she does it.
Never will I be able to share or distribute such a purity as she has.

Her chill is so obvious that there are no boundaries to the conversations we inaugurate. We ride the waves of giggles and chuckles that we form, playful arguments made and led into deeper conversations never finished.
I love the way we converse like buddies yet everything about us speaks of distant strangers. I wonder does she feel the same.
It’s something in the way her voice shakes or the way her eyes dart through mine when she looks at me. It’s something about the way she smiles in a way that shows she’s fighting it.
It’s her personality
It’s who she is.
And I’m shocked to say that I’m being struck down by her energetic placidity.
I wonder more about her than any other possible that I’ve ever known. I think of what she’s like and how she’d treat me if she knew me more. I wonder what I look like in her mind and what I look like out of her mind as well. I wonder how much she thinks about me, if at all. And the only answer I get is that of cherries in calmed snowstorm
Stems filled with white crystals as light as air itself when alone, yet at the collected fruit they weigh tons.
Falling in slow motion as the last crisp it could bare falls to a rest on its ruby red outer shell.
Frozen in air as I walk past and see it. Only wondering how long it should stay before it succumbs to the inevitability of gravity.
And her voice cracks my concentration.
It falls.
But no noise shall it make, it shall stay as quiet as the snow itself and remain a music in my mind.
The befalling of her voice
The falling of winter cherries.