Some might say that love is stupid, a farce-
"such feelings are untrue, and none too real."
However, when a connection does spark,
how great is the emotion one does feel!

To love and be loved is kindling a flame,
one which burns bright, ever-present and true-
a pure fire smoldering, one and the same-
in the twin hearts of your lover and you.

Love brings vast and immeasurable joy.
It causes the heart to flutter, to soar,
like as when a child receives a new toy.
Such is that feeling which we all yearn for.

Don't despair, don't believe true love is fake.
It exists; it's a chance we all should take.

Come view her coffin, covered in a flower-like moss.
Come see her corpse, like ice, cold and pale.
Feel free to weep tears when words just fail.
A handful of dirt into her grave; go on, give it a toss.
She hopes you will not grieve your loss.
She prays you will not sit at home and wail,
weeping and mourning, letting grief assail
and fling you into torrents of despair as you bear this cross.

For her soul finds its rest, among the deceased.
She welcomed death quite calmly.
Her graying face was not fearful in the least.
When her soul took wing, 'twas a beauty to see.
In Heaven, she hopes that you are a little pleased
knowing her death was one of peace, of tranquility.

Mortality is like a weight, suspended on a string.
It remains balanced and constant
until Fate takes that string between sharp iron blades
and permits it to come crashing violently down.

Our lives teeter on the edge of metaphoric clock hands.
With one motion, they will fall and we will end.
Life is fragile, like the most delicate of porcelain dolls.
A sight to behold, until it is broken and tossed out.

Even as we live, we gradually fade away.
With each passing second, a new nail is driven into our coffins,
and another shovel's scrape prepares our graves.
Ready or not, it will come, and we will have to face it.

Don't be depressed.
That's difficult.
One cannot fathom the agony that is
exposing your heart
then having it wounded.

I sink further within my shell
because I fear more pain.
The winters of my soul are long.
When shall I see Spring again?

Ice creeps slowly into her veins,
gradually encompassing her being
  in a layer of frost.  
Hues of blue constrict her soul, and shine like sapphire prisms behind her eyes.
She wishes to only reach out
and clasp the hand of someone warm,
  attempt to stave off the bitterness.
But because she is so frozen,
none dare approach her with warmth.
They only turn a blind eye, letting her suffer.
Could you be the one to ease her suffering?

The queen of hearts
did make some tarts
On a bright summers day.
The knave of hearts
stole those tarts.
Took them quite away.

He took the embezzled tarts
to a lovely three of spades,
whose smile made his day.
The queen of hearts    
had learned the truth
and her heart was torn apart        
over a knave full of youth.

Brimming with anger
the brokenhearted queen
ordered the ******
of the knave who loved another.
If he did not love the queen,
his head would careen
and topple from his neck.

And so it did.
And the queen of hearts was made heartless.

'Yeah, I'm not vulnerable.'
I've been telling myself this for too long.
I'm delicate.
  Easily damaged.
  Porcelain.
I bare my soul because it brings closure                  
  to wounds left festering for years.
But to be vulnerable means I must have your trust.
  Shall I trust you?
    Pour years of pain before your feet?
    Or would you just hurt me like others could?