The ache for meat from a starved vegetarian
and the life flooding from a dead mans eye sockets.
Images that blind you and burn you,
like an itch under your finger nail,
out of reach, deep beneath what hurts to break.
I'll give you the benefit that I always loved you and I'll pray out loud,
even if my teeth are clenched,
tongue bleeding,
barely breathing through the pain.

A million words wouldn't cure this silence.

This silence is dead,
cold,
rotting,
and yet it stares
with a contradicting smile
and it breathes, continuing to ****,
soaking deeper like memories do.

Understanding the nature of your actions,
                                                          reactions,
                                                          emotions.
You're my paper man.
Your strings are slowly breaking.
One day they'll be gone, and where will you be?
You don't believe in anything.
You're an agnostic piece of literature
that's collecting dust in some old building
where there aren't any people, and if there were,
they wouldn't understand your language,
or your face.
They would fear your hands,
and your eyes,
and your finger.
The finger that pulls the trigger,
that cuts the strings,
their strings, and your own.

There's this certain emptiness that comes with death at ones own hand.