Heart of Darkness

Illusory woman, or the real thing?

I can feel the torment. Maybe a ghost.

She toys with my heart, beating uncertain.

Floating in space, drained by indecision.

Was she imagined? Only a figment?

Why does my pressured heart want to explode?

She makes my head hurt. I don’t understand.

I can’t change the past. Disease-ridden fool.

Impossible resolved, but not a clue.

Mystery woman. Pleonastic phrase.

It would take a true genius to answer.

Not me. The inflicted and conflicted fool.

She helped me spend a moment in the clouds.

Before they darkened for the thunderstorm.

The quick ascent always followed by “Boom!”

Sudden realities, hard to accept.

Sullen mortality, I’m not a god.

Or else I could hurl lightning and demand.

I need to sit down. I feel so dizzy.

Anxious. It seems like I can’t even breathe.

I can’t expel the demons I so fear.

The voices I hear, are they in my head?

Or are they people telling me the truth?

I am losing consciousness, like a dream.

A hollow heart, predisposed to shut down.

Wreck My Heart

I know something. You chose to not be mine.

(Photo credit: brokentrinkets)

I know your heart, and it is not divine.

You’re a liar and a thief in my mind.

So pretty, deviousness forgiven.

Heartbreak quelled, and you are not the reason.

Missive received; don’t know where it went wrong.

Tale of the tape that didn’t measure up.

So much effort, so little my reward.

One better favored, in God’s eyes he tries.

Aggressive and victorious. I die.

Another day, another dollar short.

It eats me inside, worse than Gilbert Grape.

Thwarted by the cruelest practitioner.

I could love you tender, when my heart’s true.

The maiden who wouldn’t let flowers bloom.

I’ll show you that I care; I’m not careless.

Too careful for the good of what I want.

I’m aware of your state of mind. It’s trite.

I’ll take the blame for being so fickle.

No harm will come because I’ll lick my wounds.

And I promise not to show you the scars.

Disappointment wanting, waiting for life.

It’s neither here and you are never there.

Mine, yours, always maybe. What’s the difference?

Mesmerize my eyes with your Satan grin.

Complications

They say the man died from complications.

Time did not heal, it only made it worse.

(Photo credit: marsmet471)

Deadly infectious, devastation, death.

It flowed from his heart, arteries and veins.

An external wound wreaked havoc inside.

A shock to his system. Felt the first time.

Allergic to a cure that won’t heal him.

Broken again by underlying cause.

He was too weak to begin. Now he’s lost.

Feverish. Advancements came much too late.

Another victim. Supposedly fate.

His skin would rot, and pieces went missing.

He was blinded by unknown memories.

The zenith brought him abruptly to end.

His will stopped flowing, forced him to resign.

You could see it in his face. A trapped man.

Everyone else had health, while he withered.

He numbed himself, drank down the problem.

Until his organs failed to handle it.

He stopped thinking, believing it the cause.

Too much fluid on the brain; cleansing smarts.

Susceptible to sudden paradox.

Wantonness wandering, writing the wrongs.

No one can contain acquiescence of hope.

Could you really blame a terminal man?

Bloody Heart

Bleeding heart phenomenon. Sympathy.

Feeling concerned, he sees and understands.

Reaction to the human condition.

When suffering comes, it sends him a sign.

Doesn’t believe in individual.

Encourages egalitarian.

The voice of the minority in need.

For the greater good of everyone here.

He won’t let you do what you want, bully.

There are things more sacred than sense of self.

Whine and complain, implement your reforms.

He won’t acquiesce, your lies and your deceit.

Worshipping false gods disproved by science.

Zealots who refute logic and reason.

Do they not embrace their own deadly sins?

It’s okay to lie, cheat, steal: for profit.

Take it back, dump the body, now it’s wrong?

The vengeance was invited by your greed.

The hemorrhaged soul has none to cure him.

He bleeds for you, and you just watch him die.

Misunderstood, and left alone to cry.

How cruel to only take care of your own.

You will wake one morning and find him dead.

Of a broken heart that couldn’t be fixed.

The unrequited man, withered flower.

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The Thief

 The thief stole my heart, crystal as it were. Made of shards, liable to shatter, yet such beauty as it beholds made it the object of the thief. None so fair could otherwise steal it, valued as it was. After numerous close calls from picked pockets to B & E of my car, I left it at home. There it was, under a jar, floating in the confined space, refracting light as it slowly rotated and bobbed. Lights low, my heart was protected as I snuck out of the house every day. The heart did not belong to anyone else. I swear it was mine alone. But one day, the thief stole it. Removed from my home, it would not last long, and as it faded away, my life would become gone. Perhaps the thief didn’t know any better, but consequences are all the same. I died a little each day, while I was sure the thief smiled at others, and lived its days as though nothing was wrong. Draining my energies, the absence of my stolen heart acted as a vacuum inside of me. The thief never sold my heart, though. Of that I’m sure. For then I could have found it. Bought it from another at a steep price. Unreasonable purchase would it not if it were not so valued. For it opened up a black hole in me, a chasm that slowly drained away my existence. This unstable state of matter made me more desperate, and less cautious in pursuit of what had been lost to me. With caution caught up by a draft and tossed about by a breeze, I became more susceptible to the loss that made me so vulnerable. I risked more and was rewarded less, allowing the thief the opportunity to pounce once again. Such vulnerable prey I became, dying in the wilderness, stalked by the hunter who cannot and utterly refuses to relent.

And it happens at the right moment, just the right moment, when I am weak and no longer able to fight. I give in. The thief strikes again. Taking my voice, the only thing I had left. Without a voice, without a say in the matters at hand, the thief overpowered me. Then I woke up in a hospital, bruised broken, missing parts, pieces of me I likely didn’t even know that I had. My veins are now empty, because there is no more life or blood to pump through them. Sometimes when things are stolen, you regret. But regrets beget naught. They serve only to sharpen the sting of the memories of loss. Heartless thieves they would be, had they not stolen mine own. And then, when I thought I had already lost everything, the thief stole from me once again. The thief took my parts, dismantled the ‘me’ from me. Fully expended, now a heap of rubble, inconsolable to the nurses who are paid to care for their patients. But no patience means they don’t have to care. They did try to fix me, though, sent in the horse-faced nurse and all of the doctor men. But alas, they couldn’t put me back together again. So they sent me home packaged in a box and kept my bank account in lieu. There I was, a box of pieces that nobody wants. Finally, though, there is nothing more for the thief to steal. There’s just a box of miscellaneous parts that hold no value to anyone but their original owner. But thieves are greedy. They take, then take some more, until others are wont to suffer throughout time. I would give anything to rid this world of such thieves. But I no longer have anything left to give, at least nothing anyone would want. So I decided to sell my soul to a greedy little vendor of favors. He told me I could start over, begin renewed. Liar. Thief. Nothing changes. Especially not time. Not ever. Forward, forward, hurdling unstoppingly, taking with it any chance of ‘what if?’ or ‘once, before’. Those are the last things they stole from me. The thieves may have this world now, but I pray someone will steal it back from them, in time.