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irsorai Aug 2015
A broken man looking for a fight in a faithful place.
He's unknown, uneasy, unworthy and unfit.
He claims revenge to a stranger locked inside himself.

He sees red, he feels red, he's red.

Guided by rage there's no place to hide.
There's no hope in the conflicted emotions floating upon his heart.
He's a soldier at war with himself.

He sees red, he feels red, he's red.

There's no giving up when there's no getting up.
The broken reflection of a stranger motion.
He's never been more like himself when he's doubting himself.

He sees red, he feels red, he's red.

Shallow words, defined actions.
Quiet, impatient, there, waiting.
He's destroying himself.

He sees red, he feels red, he's red.

Dean Winchester,
locked in himself;
at war with himself;
doubting himself;
destroying himself.

He sees red, he feels red, he’s red.
Copyright © irsorai

(This poem was inspired on the character of Dean Winchester from Supernatural. No money is being made from this poem. No copyright infringement is intended. There's no doubt he's one of my main inspirations, cause unfortunately, we are alike when it comes to how we process our feelings. It doesn't necessarily mean it's a good thing though.)
irsorai Aug 2015
Don’t you ever get tired of being defensive,
on guard,
on the waiting call to strike back and move forward?
Don’t you ever feel restless for a minute of peace in the world,
in yourself?

Another empty whisky bottle lays at the end of that table
and still there’s no hope to be found.

You fight to hold on,
you fight to stay strong.

Finger on the gun,
you’re not going home today.

The fight’s not done,
the war ain’t won.

A man on a ledge, ready to jump.
Copyright © irsorai
irsorai Aug 2015
We strive to be desired,
forgiven,
beloved,
but when someones tries to give us,
shows us that we are worth all of that,
we back down,
we run away,
because we don’t know how to desire,
to forgive and love ourselves.
Copyright © irsorai
2014
irsorai Aug 2015
I live constantly between reality and Illusion.
I don’t know where ends or begins the other.
What’s reality? Isn't illusion part of reality?
Or is reality part of illusion? But what’s illusion after all?

Between thin lines,
I see the shore of those broken ideas.
Along the springs of my heart,
I see flows against tides.

Where do I belong?
What do I seek?
It is me or does everything seem blurry?
I am a capital energy of this passivity place.

I am real. Am I?
Copyright © irsorai
irsorai Jul 2015
I'm laying still,
but I'm getting ill.

making you apart,
gives me pain.

keeping you inside,
leaves me kind.

Laying still,
it got me ill.
Copyright © irsorai

— The End —