I own the burning heart That you try to fix With electrodes other Than the ones broken In my flesh by the blood Of the shadow-makers Who shared the same Womb of poison That carries its secrets Of shame and indifference Within the same thought Which races and stabs With each beat On and on Faster and faster
We all have become so exceptionally good at faking our happiness…We no longer know when we are actually happy or when the smile is only for the world to see and not to be felt.
I suppose I might have hoped That we would bloom from nothing Like a phoenix does from ash; Wild imagination Might be to blame, or perhaps A heart- a flaming heart, filled Of dreams that you encompass; False memories of laughter, Embraces, adventure, love... I hoped for what I believed But like a phoenix, such thought Could only be true in dreams; There is not much magic left In the dimming eyes of Earth, But if any is to spare, Spare me the pain of letting *Go.
Letting go what might have been, Fighting demons, courting sin, Alone and far too lost to win, Another day upon my chin, Holding on, breathing in, Running on adrenaline, A new war within, Just me and pen, Synthetic skin, Wearing thin, Begin again, Spin.