What I love I lose and what I hate is myself. What is control if not an illusion.
We serve only that which we find convenient but there is only silence after the mention of trust and respect or love.
We deny ourselves of sincere and genuine emotions that are assembled in the form of story or beauty in poetry and prose.
Words that materialize in the chambers of my heart. They find their demise in the halls of hurt and darkness.
I only wish that I was better. I wish I could be who you need me to be.
I go to you only to feel loved.
I walk away from the love that gives me a reason to thank creation and my place in it.
Only to feel so, so, inadequate.
Sadness fills me with its gloom because while I feel this.
You will always remain perfect.
While I pour words that weigh on me like dreams I wish to fulfill.
I watch as they aren’t even given acknowledgement and the blade you thrust is pushed through my bleeding heart.
In case you ever really want to know if you have touched me I hope this answers your question.
The Angel Who Fell In Love With Herself