Building something

It’s odd, being in a room where the air is so still. The distinct sensation of satisfaction is so stiff and stale, that the pungent smell and unforgettable taste of regret eases away gradually as the light turns from green to gray. Our doubts and temptations are tampered regularly, yet I keep away. The joke of love is charismatic, while we stand alone, all the while being part of something a lot bigger than us. Such limitations are induced, yet never obeyed. Always overlooked, and conquered towards something much bigger-within the evanescent fog that surrounds us, we never appreciate the beauty that lies right before us. Blame society, blame world issues, blame politics, but we never point the finger at ourselves first.
Love has been such a foolish companion, something I’ve used against others and tried to deceive another soul. Truth is, I never brought the pressing factor to the light. All these skeletons that lie within my closet, withholding the secrets that behold my very memories and worst intentions always get the best of me. I’ve never felt the need to face them head on.

Oh how I long for the soft touch of skin to tingle my heart once more. To feel love again would make these rains go away. Down and down they pour, more and more the tears never tend to cease. People on my doorstep wont go away, why don’t they just get the point, this old heart can’t take anymore bruising. The scars, the empty pain that consumes my every step is becoming a larger burden to carry every day. Every time I hear that ugly name I quiver and die a little inside. Leaving me with the the guilty pleasure to blacken this lonely world once more.

It’s like I haven’t seen the sun in days, leaving my armored skin rough and pale to the others. Just an ounce of happiness would leave me high for years. Or would that be the lie of hope that would leave me hanging from the gallows once more? This literature that pours from the pores of my soul kills.

Fuck me