All That’s Left

Tear my heart out, rip my soul in two.
Then rebuild me to the image that best suits you.
I’ll hide away all the parts of me that hurt,
I’ll wrestle my soul down to convert.

I’ll pretend to be who I’m not until night has drawn.
Cry alone until another empty day will dawn.

Take away the illusions of love inside my head.
Remind me dreams of romance and hope are dead.
I’ve got nothing left to offer that hasn’t been torn apart,
What am I supposed to do with the rest of my broken heart?

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Never Ending Fantasies

What do you do when you figure out you missed it?
How do you pick up the pieces when you realize it’s never going to be the same it could have been?

Trust is meaningless. Hope is frail. Illusions of a dream never meant to come true.

Prince Charming is a joke. Love is elusive, meant for tales we weave beyond our woes.

Dreamers exist to brighten the world with fallacies. We lose ourselves in the romance of fantasy.

Dreams and wishes our hearts make put us fast to sleep, slumbering in clouds to escape reality.

Reading ourselves stories to brighten the night, where every happy ending is true. For who reads to remind themself life is frail?

And now broken love remains. A light to shine out to the others, perhaps someone might be cheered from this endless gloom.

Take heart, hope at least burns for someone. It doesn’t mean reality gets better. But at least you know someone cares. I can care enough for you when you lose sight of yourself.

Shattered

I can’t make you love me

And you won’t even smile

I’m not sure just what I did

That brought me to this point

I’ve been so angry, and I’ve been so hurt

All you do is shatter me in this dungeon that I built 

My heart had hoped, and my head has wished

But underneath that skin of yours is needles and swords

Should have taken the initiative when I had the chance

But now I’m stuck, and I can’t find freedom

Little Miss Muffet

Little miss Muffet sat on a tuffet,

Eating her cottage cheese.

Along came a spider, that sat down beside her

And ravaged her with his greed.
The little girl wept, alone and bereft

Awaiting to be normal again

But alone on her tuffet, she became a buffet

For spiders washed out by the rain
Sometime later, prince charming did save her

And plucked her up from her demise.

She was lonlier then, than ever had been

And left the wolf in disguise.
Tumbling weary, her sight going bleary,

She accepted her heart was no good for love.

The past that shaped her, made her run from any savior

Who might come to her side to help her rise above

Playing in Naïvety

I remember the first time it felt this cold.

I remember sobbing, watching careless eyes burn across the way.

I remember the first time it hurt to breathe.

I always loved the longest.

Whatever caused my heart to trust, to hope so deeply, needs to die.

I am the eyeless man with just a head who cried, yes! yes! as he was taken advantage of.  Giving away his posessions so willingly, and yet so foolishly.

I am the tree who has succumbed to winter.  Precious few leaves still clinging.

Whatever was I thinking?

I am my own perfect enemy.  And the war needs to come to an end.

The Lie

It was easy to say I love you when the emotions were all aglow.

The world was painted in different colors back then.

Had the garrish beams not been as bright, I might have seen the flaws.

The flaws would have changed my mind so much sooner.

They would have set me on edge and made me ask what I had been thinking.

But we’re all flawed.  It wouldn’t be different with another.

Each conversation ends the same.  You fantasize and romanticize along the way of what you desire to be, and yet these all stay as they are.

Nothing changes.

Fluttering hearts hold out for you.  One has resigned to disappontment.

Arms no longer reach with excitement.

Squeals no longer call out your name.

I am no longer the only soul hurt.  Two more joined the till.

Writers Block

For some reason, I’m suffering from unshakeable depression.  It’s as though there’s an unsatiable chasm in my chest, draining away all of my energy, creativity, and distorting all of my emotions.
This is also affecting my ability to write, and make beautiful things come to life in words.  Which causes further frustration, leading to more wilting away of self.
I’m finally home with my husband again – there’s no desire or longing for our relationship to improve, I wonder why it even exists.
I’m finally back in my house, to do as I please – and the reminders that I am literally alone in this empty part of the country creep in, shadowing the gratitude I have to being home.
I’m finally able to sit down and write my story for an upcoming anthology – and nothing feels right.  Nothing desires to be written.  The story I am working on I am going to shelve, and see if something else comes up.  I have until mid-May, surely there’s a story floating out there wishing to be told.  I hope very much that it jumps into my head and allows me to bear it witness.
Story telling is my life.  Without it I am nothing.  My religious convictions are my life, without them I am nothing.
Today, I lie in bed – my mother tending my son, both thinking I am asleep – as my emptiness lends to the withering of my soul.  I must find something to slay the beast, in order to perk my spirits!  Alas, is this depression debilitating.
And I roll over, closing my eyes, wishing the world away.