Philosophy.
It's a mark for all your sorrow
It's your pride marred into skin
More lifelines etched into your hand
In hopes to end this never ending nightmare
I sleep.
No matter when sleep comes, she does not visit me in my dreams. I can't see her- her face, her curves, her hair, and her hands. I can't hear her. Her voice; how it lifts me up into a dream in a dream. I don't dream of her anymore. She's not there. She's never here. Sadly to say I can't say for myself that I was here waiting for her or waiting there to go to her. I don't dream.
I breathe.
The intoxicated air- filled to the capacity of cigarette smoke from ongoing pedestrians, fumes from the cars, greasy food, and the mingled scent of dirt in this ugly city where I do not call home. Home is with her. There is nothing for me here- but everything for a chance of her to stop by and say hello. Then I can finally breathe and stop holding my breathe because I fear that taking in my surroundings will poison me- and she will only see disgust.
I love.
I etch her name into myself; my mind, my heart, and the inside of my thighs where she can only see and graze her hands. She can only touch me, my heart, and my soul. I carve her name in thousands of ways. In cursive, in plain handwriting, or in kanji. She likes them all, but she's worried for me, because I bleed so easily
Especially when I sleep.
Authors Note: Poem- original. Good Charlotte should burn in hell right along with Avril. Kisses go out to those who review. As for right now- it's around past 1 AM for me. I'm concentrating not to eat anything for the next 4 days. So don't expect anything for a while.