My divulging outcries should
match the anguished weeks we've had. I've deceived all of
you with obscured replies, and now this distrustful person
I am is hard to understand. But you see, I can't decipher myself,
for I'm a traveler of my own heartbreak. A nomad without a map, searching for this knack to surviving. Deserted on scattered land, and each fighting "I'm okay" evolves me more lost. An unsolvable destination to which discovered, I may uncover a pumping, breathing new body and fresh spirit clean of a blemished memory. Deprived and striving; I'm holding on for that revival of flared hope, to where I cope with these thoughts in a better way. How long can you
thrive on nothing?
Will I last today?
I hold everything in, and then I break. No one gets what I'm feeling, because it usually happens a long time beforehand.
Texts and Twitter and emails have replaced conversation
Statements and replies are so fast and thoughtless , merely instant
People walk side by each silenced with gadgets across the nation
Things designed to bring us closer have made us distant
No one has time to reflect anymore during a slow talk
Emoticons have replaced our inclinations and gestures
Hands are now full and not together during meals or a walk
The physical contact during a conversation, the touch to a forearm, has lost its texture
Cold questions one after another on screens , no more lively banter
Science and technology have quieted our ways, made us so smart
Once we talked deeply and overheard at restaurants were murmurs and laughter
In a few short years conversation and discussion have lost the their art
I people watched while travelling the other day. I saw very few conversations. Thank you SR
People may tell you to not cry...
I won't because I know the difference.
They think they know when in fact they lie...
I say bury yourself in the deepest of detriments.
They may say that a new day will come...
They only spout what they can't comprehend.
They forget that you are ailing from a broken heart and that you're not dumb.
There's only you in your space, alone you stand...
Textbook responses are all they can offer...
They know not that it'll only make things worse...
There can be no replies so nice and proper.
To rid you of your life, your plight, your curse.
They may even share personal events that they think familiar.
Thinking what worked for them may work for you.
But no two situations are the same, albeit looking quite similar.
At the end of the day, you only owe it to yourself to pull yourself through.
I say feed your pain, grieve hard if you must
Wallow... Dwell... Drown yourself everyday.
Let your blood sear your insides, beneath your crumbling crust.
Let the world around you descend into destruction and decay.
What made me the expert...
To say these horrid, putrid things.
Because I am you and we both lay in the dirt.
Driven mad by the persistent echoes of our own misgivings.
I'm no expert... I am just a broken man.
Telling you to let yourself be caught in your own sad and angry song.
Be weak... Be as weak as you possibly can...
So you could rise from the ashes and emerge hale and strong.
A chat I had with a friend made me realise... "What doesn't **** you, makes you stronger..." And I know this to be true... So...
"Be very weak... So you could be strong..."
Dedicated to all the broken hearts out there...
When asking myself why I do evil things,
He replies: for prestige.
The theatrics are in full swing.
This performance is a furnace, fueled
by success of the ego, it is suffocating me.
Atlas, the parasite. He
is an engine of relentless thought
who has decided "I am the one who knocks."
He is the sardonism in my heart.
Meanwhile what's left of my gentle side
and writes the words: What has become of me?
Line Eight by Heisenberg from Breaking Bad