#paenitentia
He lied so casually;
Such little meaning in such big statements.
When he said “I love you”, did he ever truly mean it?
Has he ever meant anything? Was his whole being merely a facade?
Chasing the answers;
Does he ever truly wish to find them?
He finds depressive thoughts comforting;
So lost in self-pity, he loves to feel sadness.
Something to hold deep within.
He bleeds words onto paper, too afraid to bleed in the open;
An ever-spiraling cycle.
He knows his demons are many;
He knows his demons are self-made.
Depression grips him, as depression is relief.
Is the world even real when his thoughts are so inward and selfish?
Lost. Lost. Lost.
Do I want to be found?
Do I want to find myself?
I think not; I fear I am not the person I would like to be.
When did he turn into me?
How did this happen?
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 8:11 AM UTC
Two orchid petals glisten gingerly,
In the ripples of the moving pond
Two stars blaze passionately,
In the sky's veiled moonlight
Two butterflies flutter an auburn dream,
On the lilypad's emerald contrast
And two eyes radiate life and love,
As her cheekbones flush deep scarlet, and her smile steals my breathe.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 4:16 AM UTC
She was the epoch of beauty;
As her silken hair cascaded,
Over the slender form of her shoulders
She was the epitome of purity;
As her gentle whispers dispersed,
The darkness from within his soul
She was the personification of heaven;
As her endless love entwined both,
Drawing them blissfully ever-skyward
She was the relief of weightlessness;
As her soul helped bear his grief,
The burden of sorrowed life extinguished
She was the extremity of destruction;
As she drifted from his presence,
The truancy leaving his soul condemned
She was the essence of life;
As he felt it drift from reach,
Her auburn eyes, fading from memory.
She was.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 11:55 AM UTC
He awakes to her form;
Sleeping so gently
Alas, it is not her;
Her eyes are blue
Not the Auburn,
He knows so well.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 7:56 AM UTC
The quill welcomes,
His sorrowed soul
Upon weathered parchment,
His lost mind scrawls
The words are merely ink,
Yet scribed in blood
He asks her forgiveness,
But he asks too much
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 12:04 PM UTC