The first was cursed to love a man,
Who never knew the word.
As though rehearsed,
It was his plan,
To leave her in the dirt.

He spoke of only lies until,
One day he had been caught,
And still she loved for who he was,
Though not the man she thought.

The second was beckoned,
To try her hand,
At a game of making-match,
Odds were low,
But chance be ******,
It was all the chance she had.

At first she found,
The game had worked,
Though not as was intended,
He struck her down,
With more than words,
And then their love was ended.

The third had heard her call to love,
But never did she listen,
She searched for those,
Who gave their hearts,
And all of their attention.

And so she saw that none would last,
Because she never looked,
For those who chose to call her name,
Were fearful, shy, and shook,
So they watched her slip away,
Until they stopped and walked away,
And all were left with longing.

I found one once,
Who stole my heart.
Though twisting pride,
Did tear apart,
All hope we had,
Of loving fate,
As she found love,
In many names.

As the simple man,
I planned to be,
I said to her,
With begging plea,

"My eyes see you,
As angles do,
Radiant and heavenly.
So if our love,
Should end this way,
Consumed by passion's
growing blaze,
By fate's decree,
I swear it true,
For now and always,
I love you."

She simply smiled,
And walked away,
With heavy heart,
She left my gaze,
And turned to meet
Another man,
Who offered gold,
With heart in hand.

He promised her,
A house to keep,
A car to have,
And a place to sleep.
All these things,
He promised grand,
Though never stopped,
To understand,
Why she felt,
So unhappy.

He gave her all,
But one great thing,
He left out love,
Which left a sting.
Upon her heart,
She felt a *****,
As cupid's arrows,
Did the trick.

She longed again,
For simple tastes,
Two tender hearts,
And love's embrace.
Though when she left,
Her house of gold,
To find a simple man,
She found he left,
A tombstone cold,
That softly read:

"By fate's decree,
I swear it true,
For now and always,
I love you."

Why don't I ask the one person I feel would have an answer? That's what I want, right? An answer. Something to live for, to be good at, to feel comfortable with? That's what I should want, right? So why don't I ask if it would help me find peace?

To be honest with you, I really think I'm afraid..I'm afraid because all I've had to keep me going since I was a child was this strange search for purpose. I've longed for it, I've craved it, I thought I wanted nothing more in this world than to find some reason for ME to be here..

And I found it, once...I saw that I was good at fixing things. Though my expertise wasn't cars or computers like some might think, it was broken heart strings...because It turns out that years of loneliness does wonders for understanding how the wounds we don't see can be the ones to bring us down..

And for awhile, I was happy healing those wounds..until a question hit me. Like a broken record doomed to repeat, It played over and over again, it kept asking me.
"Do you really care how others feel? Or is this all for you?"

And truth be told, I was terrified because I didn't know the answer. And rather than facing the music and asking myself honestly, I chose to just stop trying..I gave up giving myself for others, so that I wouldn't have to face the fact, that giving a helping hand, was my last stand for helping me..

So now a question plagues my thoughts, it's the question of my life. And I cannot dare ask loved ones, for fear that they would lie, yet through all the years that I have lived, I still can't seem to answer this.

"What kind of man am I?"

The only time,
I seem to care,
Is when the sun,
Swings 'round to call me.
When birds are heard,
Through morning air,
And no memories,
Dare befall me.

No twisting doubts,
Or nagging pains,
No binding chains to hold,
Though this is grand,
The fact remains,
The day will soon unfold.

And with it too,
My chores will come,
This thing I do call work,
Shall drive me mad,
And drive me numb,
And leave me in the dirt.

Yet still I rise,
To greet it strong,
Just as life demands,
"How time flies,"
"You don't have long,"
"So spend it with your hands."

Counting money,
Or busing tables,
And spinning fables,
To get you through,
This life of yours,
Which you call stable,
Though we know,
This isn't true.

So why on earth,
Do we live this way,
Spending time in foolish fashion,
We work ourselves,
'Til dying day,
And rarely find our passions.

Yet still we rise,
As days before,
And continue this "Nothing Cycle."
We give our lives,
To something more,
A state of true,
Denial.

The air seems cool and crisp in memory, and perhaps it was, then. Or maybe I'm simply lost now, and looking back to find my way, I couldn't say for sure.

I do know that something is off, though not to be penned to a face or a name. But what then could cause such unrest in so young a soul, to feel old like canyons, withered away?

Teenage angst may play a part, though years late on que, still seeing bits of broken heart, but this is nothing new.

Maybe then some trait of time does haunt me in my thoughts, a mid-life-crisis In my prime, to keep me lost to some degree.

My only way to deal with life is simply passing by, so I see it in nostalgic view, a vague impression of present state to keep me walking onward.

They clashed with pride, and poisoned word, plied their trade, and sowed deceit, for chance of love, they all denied, the meaning of humanity.

Like wild beasts, they tore apart, the fragile shells, that kept them safe, and found beneath, a tainted heart, changed and blackened, in its state.

A sign to them, the few with reason, to leave behind, their petty wants, while fool and friend, committed treason, to soothe the pride, which they had lost.

And those who stayed, would find themselves, soon fractured, and confused, for they had made, a living hell, which pride had led them to.

If my innocence had a name, how would it be spelled? Crooked with C's or crossed with X's, maybe straight-laced with L's, sometimes bent at the ends?

If my innocence had a name, what would it be? Simple like Adam, or sweet like Eve? Would it mirror mine, or choose to be free?

If my innocence had a name, would I bother to remember? Or surrender my thoughts to the remedy of amnesia, that seeks to soothe me in times of need?

If my innocence had a name, would I even want to know? So time could choose when it would go and leave me here alone, with nothing but a memory of who my innocence used to be?

If my innocence had a name, I've forgotten how to say it. Laid to waste in this mind of mine, that hates to hold on, to the good times.