The Writer

 

Love is like a razor, that leaves your soul to bleed.
Love is like this paper, a dead and lonely tree.
How must one grow, if never given light?
Just a seed in the valley, with no wrong or no Wright.
Strangled by the roots, that bound us both in place.
Love and fantasy, how I long just for a taste.
Running away, to only find myself again
This time more lost and confused than I had ever been

Many years I've lived alone in shame.
haunted by three simple words.
if I heard them would l change?
How long can I live in isolation, with this void I can not
Feel? Lost within no reason. I must bleed to know I'm
Real. Hurting brings me comfort.
Its my blanket that keeps me warm.
Pain is how I sleep at night through depressions storm. Starving for affection. Should I cut
Myself again? Its the story of my life,
And on each page you find it ends.

Giveing up is the hardest thing to do.
is what goes through this writers mind.
As he tries to paint a picture, but these words
So hard to find. Never can he capture the beauty
Or pain he speaks. As he drags you on this page
With him, while you lie beneath the sheets.
Curled up close and intensely reads, every word
He wrote. Imagining all the tear filled nights to the
Beauty of that he spoke. Now lost so deeply in
His story. As she to has felt the same.
The words they disapear, like the dew drops from the rain...

By darkheartmagic

© 2011 darkheartmagic (All rights reserved)