I am sickly, weak and broken,
From all the words I leave unspoken.
I am plagued, hurt and deranged,
From the curses I leave unchanged.
I am full of expectations,
I have fully crafted plans.
I have names for operations,
I won't achieve with my own hands.
I walk through worlds and I'm displeased,
But it isn't these lands that are diseased.
Candlelight is romantic, unless
you're in a dungeon.
Context changes everything.
Context makes you look down
at the bridges you build and realize
they are plywood: thin, cheap, but
soggy enough from this rain that
they're impossible to burn.
Realism is a myth. Everyone has a lens.
People believe what they want to believe,
or they believe the worst. Sometimes they
alternate, tense and relax at all the wrong
moments, a sigh of relief before the crime
has been committed.
Everyone loves a hero until they are up
The unforgivable becomes forgivable
in the right context, murder as self-
defense, or in war. Fear and arousal
provoke identical symptoms in the body.
Sometimes the boundaries bleed together.
Sometimes ethics surrender in the face
We are all dead
or we are all alive
We live in the grey
but there is no dividing line
Brown or pink
Black or white
Shades and shadows dividing
by what you think they think
about why you are
when what you are
In dying for difference
we are lost
In thinking too much
and in not living enough
Love, she learns at a young, is her first disappointment. Her heart is bigger than her body and her logic smaller than her brain. She falls in love fast and easily with the world around her and doesn't understand how fast she can fall apart.
She grows to give and never take but forgets to set away some things for her. People, she realizes as she stand empty handed, are as greedy as they are needy.
And now that she's empty, that she has nothing left to offer, she tucks her heart away and is left forgotten.
Travel has ruined me.
I live in a desert
Where the people drown themselves
Today I visited the sea
It renewed the spell it has on me
So that when I venture out of its sight
Weakness grabs a firm hold of my throat
And pulls me under foaming waves.
People just reject one dogma
In favor of another.
In exchange for another.
One form of rigidity
Rather than another.
One type of close-mindedness
Instead of another.
They never really become
They just Exchange their old forms of enslavement
For new ones.