CynicalHearts

my hands are the hands of a writer, a lover,     a killer, a fighter. my eyes are that of dante. I've seen through the depths of hell, trekked through the valley     of the shadow of death... but I did fear evil, for it is what I have become. my eyes are those of angels fallen, who look up to God     but find no comfort in his arms. my soul is that of the Navajo, living on dead ground. freedom sits right in front of me,     daring me to reach out and take it. but what would I do with it?

black sheets hung over everything. I must be moving. moving back to hell. every mirror is covered, draped with black satin. not that it matters. I can see the shard of broken glass spilling from beneath, I can feel them give way as I walk past. what happened? I don't remember this. and then I see it. the one mirror I have left to see. gleaming smugly from the darkest corner. jagged. sharp. beautiful. you have returned to me. so I'll keep you tucked away until I need you the most, when the day is long gone and so is he. that looks like tonight. he's a heartbeat away- but I'm stone cold dead tonight, sitting on the fl

to fall in love with a memory? can you become so engrossed in the way that things used to be that you forget the here and now? can you forget how things are now in the present, just so you can go back somehow just to kiss your memory? can a memory hold your hand like the one you have now? can he love you like the one you have now? think. i don't think he can. he can try. he probably will try, but in the end he is nothing more than the fabric of space and time thats been pulled over your eyes. when he fades away, as he will when time no longer allows him to remain as an illusion in your path, you will realize that wh

love lAys flat on its Back. maybe Cloud watching, day Dreaming, or in dEFeat. love's Given up. it's Had enough waIting for you. you left love as it lay next to you. Just got up and walKed away, leaving Love on its own. love waited for you to come back, but Months, the Never ending months took their toll. and in a Queer fufillment of a dReam, you got what you wantes. love will leave you well enough alone, STaying away Until you're sure, Very sure that this is what you want. love comes back blindly. it needs no eXplanation, no reason why you left. love will seiZe the opportunity of forgiveness, even though it knows i

music escapes from headphones- the kind you can't understand.          neither can she. she can't understand anything. she doesn't understand why          her life is hidden in the shadow of another. she doesn't understand why          her mirror always seems to lie, stealing her beauty away,          whisking it off to give          to someone else. she doesn't know how to live anymore-          she doesn't know how to trust when everything she sees fades to untold lies.          she doesn't know how to love. it scares her. she knows she is corrupt. she doesn't was to ruin him.          she knows          she

The feeling of that stolen kiss still returns to haunt me. The taste, the taste of passion and blood from the lies still dances at my tongue. Quick and deep, like the cutting words of a short poem about death stemming from love. So painfully sweet, like the greeting of a long lost friend that you know you can never see again. Three small words still ring in my ears. I Miss You.     I Want You.          I Need You.               I Love You. These are words I am forbidden to hear, you are forbidden to say except with a smile at my backward glance as I am forced to walk away.

Wandering, wandering down a simple path through the woods and around the back of nowhere. Nowhere to be found, no one to behold, where nothing makes a sound. You stumble upon an old home, once quite lavish, but now over grown. Oh, the tears and pain this house did once hold. Memories, fantasies, and lives, they did unfold. But they are gone now, lost unto the ages. Will you care to unravel this within the dusty pages? A book lying disheveled on the floor will hold the key to these memories and so, so very much more. A knife, bloody, lay upon the table. A story untold that you can unfold, that is, if you think you are