To be left a rotting corpse in the inky depths of my screaming, vacant soul
To taste the freshness of the air only to have it ripped so unnaturally from my shriveling lungs
Once sitting atop that merciful beacon of hope,
I find myself tumbling, grasping, gasping, clasping for some hold onto the beautiful signal
And who is to blame?
Who?
Certainly not you, for it was your hand who found me troubled in the merciless murky vapor
Your hand that lifted me from the bowels of hell and so dotingly destroyed my detriments
But had it not been for you I would have so happily, so cheerfully accepted my vacant vocation
Of restlessly, recklessly, ruefully running around without any remorse for my forlorn reality
For it is not the force of you freedom that loosed my heavy chains, but rather the form
That vicious vigor that stuffed my spirit with a seemingly ceaseless, incessant self-assurance
But for my essence to not identify isolation, to not recognize regret seems so conceited in comparison to yours
Which is ever growing, ever loving, ever laughing, ever knowing, ever telling, ever asking, ever showing, ever…
After all it was your being there that showed me how lonely I truly was, how pitiful of an existence I truly led
So now I state the obvious
Why?
Why go through all that endeavor, all that effort of effectively and essentially helping me escape my insanity just to throw it out the
Door is where you went, leaving me to collect the shambles and shards that was the life you made
Leaving me to collect these silly splinters just so that you could prove a point
A point well taken, a point notably noted, and a point you called no return
Return?
Return from what?
From the friendship promised, or the friendship broken, or the new twisted friends of which you’ve hardly spoken?
And so I take my leave, but I will return
I will not leave such a dear thing to burn
Burn in the essence of what we call hope
For, after all, you were the one who threw me the rope
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 4:19 AM UTC
To be left a rotting corpse in the inky depths of my screaming, vacant soul
To taste the freshness of the air only to have it ripped so unnaturally from my shriveling lungs
Once sitting atop that merciful beacon of hope,
I find myself tumbling, grasping, gasping, clasping for some hold onto the beautiful signal
And who is to blame?
Who?
Certainly not you, for it was your hand who found me troubled in the merciless murky vapor
Your hand that lifted me from the bowels of hell and so dotingly destroyed my detriments
But had it not been for you I would have so happily, so cheerfully accepted my vacant vocation
Of restlessly, recklessly, ruefully running around without any remorse for my forlorn reality
For it is not the force of you freedom that loosed my heavy chains, but rather the form
That vicious vigor that stuffed my spirit with a seemingly ceaseless, incessant self-assurance
But for my essence to not identify isolation, to not recognize regret seems so conceited in comparison to yours
Which is ever growing, ever loving, ever laughing, ever knowing, ever telling, ever asking, ever showing, ever…
After all it was your being there that showed me how lonely I truly was, how pitiful of an existence I truly led
So now I state the obvious
Why?
Why go through all that endeavor, all that effort of effectively and essentially helping me escape my insanity just to throw it out the
Door is where you went, leaving me to collect the shambles and shards that was the life you made
Leaving me to collect these silly splinters just so that you could prove a point
A point well taken, a point notably noted, and a point you called no return
Return?
Return from what?
From the friendship promised, or the friendship broken, or the new twisted friends of which you’ve hardly spoken?
And so I take my leave, but I will return
I will not leave such a dear thing to burn
Burn in the essence of what we call hope
For, after all, you were the one who threw me the rope
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