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Paradise Broken

There is much difficulty to be had
in diagnosing a fractured heart,
no medical professional required
to establish the wrongfully obnoxious agony
that accosts me so. What I would not give
to have a higher power suspend my senses,
and punish me ever so severely
with the removal of all emotion
destined to cause further pain.
Despite the raw potential for unflinching happiness,
dank despair, is as always,
unending in its hostility. I am, as I shall be
for a period of incalculable time, a book,
void of pictures and words, constructed
by emptiness in a broken paradise,
wishing to be inoculated from the love
I once held for you, so I may not grimace,
painstakingly, with tears brimming between my eyes,
after being condemned by truthful knowledge
that your heart beat will never share
its wondrous rhythm with my own.

The Plight of Mortal Beings

My want to love you, rendered fiction
forevermore in but a moment,
your words of hollow romance
suffocating the essence of my heart
into a shade of puce. I cannot
ever rectify nor cease the pain
committed unto me by your morose
decision, to slice apart my romantic
pledge with the sudden impact
of your words. Some choices cannot
be taken back, my decision
to open my vulnerable heart
proving to be an adverse action,
exposing that which could
be taken advantage of. Any grace
is fractured and loneliness succumbs
my body in its twisted decadence,
no trace of eternal love remaining
within my severed consciousness.
This plight cannot be justified
by these writings as I attempt
an explanation, and in doing so,
I become conflicted by the truth,
drowned in great misfortune,
that happiness is only meant
for fairy-tales, rather than
the plight of mortal beings.


If it were sensible to love you,
then everyone would do so,
and as I sit across from loneliness
in this kitchenette, I contemplate
how the table, much like my heart,
pivots on an angle.

To which would I be referring,
the blistered legs or decayed heart,
when I gently touch the texture
and wonder if its origins
are similar to my own?

Once proud and strong
in a wilderness of shrubbery and undergrowth,
now that which stood for centuries,
admiring the still changing world,
was crippled most severely
by a single blow.

I, who sits beside myself
acknowledges such strife,
a liquid beverage running like a busted tap
along the curvature of my face.
A salty droplet collapses
upon the table top, the misery
of both myself and the furniture,
which helps keep me upright,
becoming unanimously combined.

Where one mourns the loss of comradery,
exhibited from the fellow environmental beasts,
I cry anonymously for a woman,
struck down by an avalanche
of lightning fast pain.

Never will you return to the great beauty
I fell hopelessly in romance with,
and out of all the patron’s in life’s orchestra,
this fair princess of goodly will,
now isolated and distressed,
is the one tender soul who never did deserve
that which indefinitely ruins you.

Into the Sunset

Euthanasia my heart, if you will,
so I may feel no more. Despite the light
of life blossoming before me,
I require a permanent reprieve
from the pain of never knowing
love again. The feeling slipped
so suddenly that one time
through my fingers, and no matter
what tactic I attempt, I am erased
from passion’s vision. No longer
can I claim the touch
of a would be paramour,
my heart becoming entrenched
in a pool of paramount distress.
I can feel little more
than the fatigue of loss,
as I witness the woman
I would wish to make my own,
vanish into the sunset evermore.

Shangri La

Alas, you have come to claim defeat,
to which there is no answer,
says the voice of troubled reason,
and thus, I leave so discontent.
I am no chummy conversationalist,
but if I were to look at you like the Goddess,
as the dawn breaks on the cusp
of a beautiful morning, with dew settling
in upon the leaves, glistening
under the light, and birds chirping
happily, singing awake the Shangri La
of Spring, would you confess
an appreciation towards these eyes,
which dance across your beauty?
Let us be honest for a moment,
in this hall of monsters, what titles
do you have which I do not,
that prevents me from touching
the curvature of your silk heart?
I hardly expect a response
from someone such as yourself,
who has been granted everything
by the grace of Godly beings,
and only now in your presence,
do I realize the foolish extreme
I have gone to, in the hopes
of calling your love my own.
But if happiness were to abound
for one decent moment, may your footprints
fall upon the path, so I can one day
follow once you have readied
yourself for my affection. If my wish
were to be granted your acceptance,
I would wait for aeons, before the realization
your love would not arrive collapsed
atop of me, and any moment afterwards
would not prove early enough
to spell an adoring future, the toxic
memories of lonesomeness
filling me with doubt, until, in your absence,
I forget the feelings I once had.
Sadly it is too late for me. Do not waste
your words or tears upon my fractured
existence, for I am already dead
inside, and no amount of kindness
will ever sympathize with the ever growing pain
of never knowing how your lips
taste upon my own.

Men Don’t Cry

It is said by some that men don’t cry,
but what is this liquid beverage
streaming down my cheek?
Fueled by consistent woe,
a waterfall of triumphant plight
threatans to crucify this face
of mine with endless grains
of salt. My face will become a beach,
but the touch of gorgeous women
will be absent from its barren fixture.
If only there was someone
for me in this mating game,
but never do bachelorette’s
fall for men, plucked by the pull
of exponential sadness. Women
adore men of strength and honor,
and sadly, I am out of both.
I could cry aloud about how content
I am with the current situation,
but the honest truth
is that life is better lived
with someone there beside you,
and in my case the reserved seat
has remained vacant for longer
than I could ever hope to fathom.
The pain of never knowing
love is drenched in blissful ignorance,
but the agony which consumes
my now wretched heart
is from having this glorious emotion,
and feeling it ripped
right out from my arms.
If only I was empty, then never
would I be consumed, and instead
of love, all I feel is the touch
of absentee happiness,
and to leave this planet
with such awful err, would be pain
beyond all possible comprehension.

Ramification’s Plight

At last, a seductress who received
all that she deserved, for tearing
out the hearts of love struck fools
and leaving them to perish miserably,
hoisting the still beating muscles
upon the chain, in replace of a belt,
so all may see the ruin she does proclaim,
while the heart is diminished
into withered dust. The love she has
inside, inadvertently fell upon
the face of a common man,
who she believed unworthy,
despite many a desire booming,
and now, months after the removal
of such a feeling from her life,
not a day goes by when his face
is seldom far from haunting hers.
Choosiness might be an available virtue,
but eventually, the irony of fickle ploys,
catches unfeeling villainy, and tortures
them with the agony they so often
frequented upon others.

The Penalty of Love

I die at the feet of love’s lynch man,
and once deceased, I drag my coffin
up from the dungeon keep
and into Heaven’s blight.
I cast away fears of a decadent past,
in replace of sweet salvation,
and the hope of a solitude
from the touch of antagonism’s plight.
What woe would dare deteriorate
happiness everlasting, in exchange
for a declaration of something
far more sinister? The lips of a lover
produce a kiss that could beautify the darkness,
and bring light to the corners
swept up in hesitated misery.
But even then, angst and err
are ever powerful, and their allies,
in the darkest pits of the netherworlds
are rarely ever cast out into the light
from the balconies of Heaven’s domain.
There are no heroic protagonists
who could save the day,
and with a tap of the trigger,
they all but disappear,
for their words are as hollow
as any empty promise can be,
and instead fill the heart with further sorrow.
There is no candid mutuality;
there are no happy resolutions; there is no final kiss
at the conclusion of this verse,
for only the fickle silver screen
is capable of such derogatory slander.
The world is but a bitter place, and the movies make it more so
with their continued falsity,
and if I had the point, in their place
I would unveil the truth, regardless of how excruciating.
I truly wish the arms of another
could wrap me in eternal love,
but only the ignorant, yet to be burnt
by such brash defeatism,
believe such an unholy scam.
A hundred times my eyes have fallen
upon a potential dream boat,
and a hundred times, the treacherous betrayal
of a life unkindly, has left me with little else
but the broken promises of my heart.
So, with these words writ, I acknowledge the insignificance
of my place within love’s plan,
and the unabashed anarchy my heart shall surely face
forevermore, until the end.

What Could Have been

A drop of sweat could dangle from the hairs
upon your brow; your hand could brush against mine
as we lay enchanted in bed; you could sigh,
after having my passion injected into you,
and know my words were real; you could taste
the tenderness of the flesh which coats my lips
and drink my love eternal; you could sleep
beside me, and dream of all the happiness
we enjoyed the day before. But never will this happen,
for I failed to take a stand, and you forgot
to alert my heart that yours could have been mine

Death of Love

Like a wilting flower, the death of a heart
is a slow process, the petals falling like
leaves, until not even one remains. It is
not in my nature to be verbose about my
feelings, but to stand aside in silence,
allowing the passions of other men to
find happiness and comfort in the
pleasures of great women, whom had
originally captured my affections with
but a single glimpse. As the rose bud
perishes into the ground from whence it
was born, my heart falls deeper into
shadow, until not even I can determine
if such a muscle, was really ever there at
all. The emptiness brought about by the
absence of romanticism’s roots, travels
through me like the deathly frozen
hands of a specter, my body becoming
a husk of its former self. The lack of a
woman’s breath upon my lips, her hair
tangled on my cheek, her fingers
wrapped around my own, causes me to
sourly forget what should never be.
Love becomes too difficult to even
comprehend, and as the dawn arises
anew, I must prepare myself with the
uttering of a mantra, in order to
understand that love shall never be
mine. Happiness forgets me, and in its
absence, only sadness remains, and as
I pull a coat tighter around my chest
after having the warmth of the world
forget me too, I must inherently
acknowledge,  that from this day
forth, my choices have inevitably
forbidden any potential owner of the
skeletal remains that make up my heart,
from ever noticing me forevermore.