I torn between to parts of myself.
Ones that contradict.
One that believes in beauty, and love, and hope.
Another that holds pain close and a blade even closer.
If someone looked at me they would never see the later.
When I see so much good in the world,
why can only write poetry and sing songs about the hate,
and fear, the anger, the dread, the haunting Voices of the night.
What part of myself is real,
and if i was addicted to happiness instead of misery
would it still matter?
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
I torn between to parts of myself.
Ones that contradict.
One that believes in beauty, and love, and hope.
Another that holds pain close and a blade even closer.
If someone looked at me they would never see the later.
When I see so much good in the world,
why can only write poetry and sing songs about the hate,
and fear, the anger, the dread, the haunting Voices of the night.
What part of myself is real,
and if i was addicted to happiness instead of misery
would it still matter?