That's the thing about poets
Where others see a storm
We are reminded that our hearts are not alone in their torment
Where others hear rain
We hear the whispers of a thousand forgotten dreams
Where others feel cold
We feel ice piercing into our souls making us bleed out all of our secrets

That's the thing about poets
Only the beautifully tragic can understand them

Paint my heart as empty
all blue and black and grey

Around it perforate a circle
from beginning back to start

Paint it very gently
then quickly pull away

Tearing it out
without ripping it apart

Someday they'll surely place it
in the Gallery of Fools

Inside the Wailing Walls
out past the Hall of Shame

And when the people face it
they'll cherish their own hearts

As if anatomy has
anything to do with pain

©Jason Cole

Everything is overestimated
Love is blind to your pain
Happiness is fleeting
Fear is a wall people hide behind
Everything is an obstacle
In your self-righteous path
The games they're obsessed with
Are to you a mere distraction
From the boredom of your existence

He's the exception
He makes you feel painless
He is the candle in the dark room
That is your soul
He is the lifeboat that keeps you
From drowning in your thoughts
He is the cactus in the flower killing
Desert that is your mind

So if you don't care about anything
Enough to hate it
And everything is overestimated
He is nothing
This must be nothing
**And nothing lasts forever.