Violin.

I swam far out beyond shallow waters, sought shelter in homes with no walls. I sacrificed my soul for you to slaughter, yet I still haven't reaped the fruit from it all. I meandered the world and its continents, searching for a love that would provide, a home for all the raw emotion within me, that will remain and never subside. I assumed you were the one, that would bring colour to my life so black and white, you added radiance to my dull skies and varnished the stars that shone for me at night. My eyes refuse to weep, for the sadness is often too much to bear. My scars run deeper than before, how much longer must I suffer from this depressing affair. I showered you with romance, wiped your tears when they would fall. But in the end I am the only one that is at all enthralled. I listened to your stories of the pain that you have felt, offered you my shoulder for the cards that you have been dealt. Much to my chagrin, our love was your audience as you played me like your violin. I sang the notes you wanted, as you ridiculed me to your crowd. They were mesmerized and haunted by the music that I cried so loud. Many came from far and wide, to listen to the sorrowful song I sung. As they applauded, I silently died, drowned from the misery that filled my lungs.

Loneliness.

You ask what it feels like to be alone? It feels like one's sins that have yet to be atoned. Like, the promise of death just slightly postponed. Loneliness is like a cyclone, that rips through a city and tears through its bones. It is the scent of another's cologne, on the collar of the one that you brought into your home. But of being alone all I am qualified to say, is that it can turn your hair instantaneously grey. I have known it to strip some bare, to leave them in the cold with nothing to wear. It has darkened my days, and stolen the light that used to come as such a comfort on cold, lonely nights. I am now filled with fright, and often contrite as I rarely know when I will eat my next bite. I have lost all will to fight, as I smile insipidly, such a miserable sight. Loneliness is the one whose name I will scream for murdering my young and wearing my heart on its sleeve. It has taken my breath right out of my lungs, whipped me in the scorching heat of the desert sun. I am no longer one, as I falter and fail; like the missing voice of a melodious nightingale. I will wither and writhe from loneliness and it's scythe; it was like the grim reaper as it reaped my soul, left me with nothing, and refused to console . . me as the tears poured from my eyes. Left in a daze and questioning why. How at once does all this pain exist inside my slender frame? But alas, I've come to know that loneliness is the one that I shall accost for all of the joys that I have lost.

Rome.

I am embarking on a new endeavour, as the pages turn. This chapter of my life will be filled with new lessons that I must learn. You and I, we grew apart, as we took one another for granted. The seed of love that grew within has died, the promises recanted. I rebuilt this city on my own, placing one brick at a time. Yet throughout it all I refused to acknowledge that love is only worth a dime. A penny on a good day, it has become so plebeian. I feel calm and serene, like the waters of the Aegean. For a brief moment, our lives were entwined; you held my hand and showed me my noble path. Now, as a specimen that has become so refined, all I can feel is your miserable wrath. The pages keep turning, as the passion burns out. Snuffed, like a candle that was once devout. In my conviction, I see that I was wrong, to assume that you were my saviour, that our meeting was like a song. You guided me like the stars, all I needed was to look in your direction to find my way home. But now I am alone, and I must make this journey on my own. As Rome was not built in a day, we must go our own separate ways. 'Tis always better to have loved and lost, even if love has the power to exhaust. I am stronger than ever before, no longer meagre in my supply. Just know that you will have my shoulder until the day that I die.

Broken Doll.

When you're not around, I feel like my limbs have been amputated. I am a puzzle that refuses to come undone. But whenever you're near, I can't help but feel frustrated. You were my greatest contender, not willing to be outdone. I thought that I'd been vindicated, when I made the effort to show that I have changed. Instead you pad my walls, and leave me in restraints as if I am vehemently deranged. My sun will rise again, as your flowers wilt from guilt. My castles will touch the sky, as you procrastinate on the ones in your head that you have yet to build. Ambition emanates from my pores, I exude it like the cherry tree that blossoms in the spring. You still refuse to believe that I have nothing up my sleeve. Like a prisoner on death row finally granted his reprieve. My last meal consisted of food that tasted like our love. I ate in silence as I repeated the Lord's prayer to God above. I berated Him for my weakness, for the life I left unfinished. I lamented for the light in my eyes that had entirely diminished. In my next incarnation, I will not make the same mistakes. I will always remember that the love you give should be equal to that you take. No longer selfish, in a world primarily inspired by hate. I will contemplate before I use my pen to write my fate. It will be wondrous, full of joy and cheer; another life lived to the fullest with my loved ones near. You will reattach yourself to me, with glee, no longer the separated limb of a crooked amputee.