Torn

Those wounds,
deep in my chest,
ripped open
once again.
Fresh blood
drains from my
heart and
stains my
pale, white skin.
I'd give
anything to
have a hell hound
rip me inside
instead of
your words,
your lack of trust
in me.
I'd burn
in the fires of
the sun
before I'd
let your
words scald me
once again.
My heart
no longer feels
emotion,
nor do I.
You took away
my will
to love
again, and now
you must
keep your
promises to me
as I have
for you.
It is time you made
a decision.
Love me
or hate me. It is
your
choice.

23/01/2010

Hands

My hands.
As odd as they
seem,
they are my
treasures.
They draw my
dreams,
paint all my
problems,
and write down
all the worry
that flows through
my mind.
They are my
outlets of
joy and pain, of
lust and of jealousy,
documenting the emotion
that courses
through my veins
in a way I
never imagined possible.
Things I'd never
dare to say
out loud,
set out for
the world to
view.
I'd be lost
if I could no longer
write to tell
the stories
of love, and of sorrow,
that fill my heart
with tears,
that blind my eyes
with the passion
of my soul.
Eyes I could live
without.
But hands?
Without them,
I am but an
empty shell,
rejected by my
being, cast aside
and left
to rot.
Hands create
music, and music
is the food of
love.
Without hands,
there would be
no music,
there would be
no love.
What kind of world
would we live in
if there was
no love?
This one.

16/01/2010