Insomnia strangles as it deceives me with false promises of sleep; it closes in and comes in for the kill, painfully sadistic, but always a thrill. I lie awake at night, innocently questioning the path of my life. Will it be one of wonder and love, or contrarily one of heartache and strife? I analyze every aspect as I am nestled awake, shaken to my core, and left yearning for retribution for the love that you would take. I asked the moon to reveal to me, all of our love's discrepancies. As if I was much to blind to agree that I was merely entranced by your perfumed potpourri. She pressed her face to mine and said, "Love too, goes stale, as it is not like wine but more like bread." I sat and contemplated her wise and profound advice, praying for a way to once again entice. But instead, I sit and write, hoping to earn some solace from these dark and lonely nights. Your betrayal still stings like a wound that refuses to close. Try as I may, I am still haunted by my own ghosts. I adored you with the fervour of an innocent child, yet you ignored my attempts, making me feel feral and wild. I was raised amongst Gods, given the utmost respect, until you pierced my skin and proceeded to infect. I have become toxic, your own personal Chernobyl; I have become so ignoble, as I sit isolated and absentmindedly reflect. I am a wasteland, barren and bare, devoid of life as you sold all my wares. Pillaged my village, and left me for dead; played with my heart as if it were on a thread. You used me to test your weapons of mass destruction, as I dejectedly waited for your next round of nuclear testing. You are Bush and I am your Iran, you poisoned my land as you did in Japan. I long to be free and fly away home, yearn to be asleep in this empty tomb. I am but a prisoner in this often solitary world; always an oyster, covetous of the pearl.
Time stood still for nary a soul, it dragged its feet, aching and old. Blistering heat that made us melt, we were once softer than silk felt. Hallowed hearts wind whistled through, covered in bruises, black and blue. Hardly broken, but maybe bent, running on empty and love spent. There comes a day in all our lives, when our failures cut deep as knives. But you shall remain a triumph, you stayed with me, like a science. Words were whispered, curses, we'd shout, until the blood drained from our mouths. Yesterday—softer than silk felt; seems like all we do these days is yell.
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