(no subject)
Your eyes change minute to minute. Your beauty spreads itself out like a painted fan. The more I look, the more I see. Your beauty is like a butterfly on a flower, but the flower is melting ice poison and the wings are razors. I reach out to touch you and blood falls in silent rain drops. My feelings for you shame me into silence. The truth of this and your name will never be revealed. It is you who has made me realise the failure of my life. The thought of you fills me with longing and at the same time, a burning humiliation that produces scar tissue and dead brain cells. Your existance mocks me and I am unable to confront this. You have no idea of any of this. None of this is your fault. It is completely with me. It is you who makes me see what I really am. I am weak and out of touch with myself. I am disturbed and unwilling to summon the courage to overcome the demons that perversely alowed me a glimpse of true love, only to rip it from my grasp. I walk the streets knowing that you exist right now. How many hours have I thought of you. Conversations I have made up while moving silently from place to place and house to house. How well travelled my thoughts of you are. I am sure I am not the only one. You are an untold story. You are the impassioned truth wanting to scream its existence, to be forever trapped by a strong hand clamped firmly over the mouth of my soul.