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 Jan 2014 Katy Culshaw
Aarya
If I could,
I would pick up my ink pen
and drown an ocean into you
instead of drowning you in it.
Extract these rotting feelings
for the sake of your ignorance.
Carve scriptures into each delicacy of your brain
so you wouldn’t have to dwell in such misery every day.
Wire faith
to your blemished heart.  
Imbue purity
to your sullied soul.
If I could,
I would write you through all depths of insanity
without any harm
so that your
mind no longer persists the thought of death.
There was a time I thought you were dead.
Only you were painted red
in a black and white world.
Like you have been walking barefoot on a broken road
your whole life.
Your demons imitate life
And life imitates the demons.
You are the one being tied down by invisible, nonexistent chains.
So unaccepting of help that has come for you
Watch  
the sun touch the horizon
reach the meeting of sun and ground
and
Find further still,
The limits you would like to reach only run from you.
You have such a murderous tongue
for society  
people.
But one day I hope to see you write yourself into existence
Rather than to let yourself drown in it.
Why has you dying become something so habitual?
Darling, death is not a friend of yours
Nor are you a friend of his.
But I know of your frequent dates with death
Tell me
Does his neck feel like happiness
And do his lips relieve you of your suffocation
Now
are you lost?
or are you found?
Do you recognize the irony  
Of the most terrifying things happening in the most angelic places
Charm yourself upon that bridge
Whose lights light up the city in golden arrays
With a glazed look
you’d think.
In sadness seen go by
You are charmed by either war or hope.
These occurred robberies have taken much
But they left opportunity
Important people
And a moon in your window
A future that only you know the ending of  
And a slice of the midnight sky.
So it goes.
To do nothing but rot.
In moments like these
is all I want.
And it's been said I am wasteful.
The truth is distasteful.
Neglecting reflection for sake of your fables.
Living in a dream
built in your head
somewhere between
half asleep and half dead
just
won't
cut
it.
We are not so different, you and I.
Similarly leading separate lives.
Susceptible to the same old repetitive lies,
as the ones we will hear 'til the day we die
like
"I'm sorry"
"I love you"
"It's my fault"
"I didn't mean to"
"I'll try harder than I used to."
or
"One day I'll love you more,"
Well I've heard the score.
Love you better, love you often.
More affection and more talking.
More attention, more gawking.
More time.
You are mine,
and I haven't felt the truth in that.
And it is moments like these when I wonder
what I am doing
at all.

— The End —