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Spacious dinning rooms,
laughing, cold-hearted freaks,
and long hallways that end no where.
This is where I live.
This is where I thrive.
This is where I tend to make-believe.
A long table, a long long
table accompinied by non-exsistant members,
a heart that stares glumly and blindly out.
A heart so cold, even frost-bite needs to
attempt heat. Eyes so warm,
a kindeling fire cannot
accostume.
This is where I believe.
This is where I hope.
This is where I love.
There are many rooms,
all filled with nothing
but lingering, delibrately lingering,
empty-chested women and men.
Their laughs taunt me when I sleep,
and their smiles linger behind all frowns
behind all depression.
Without hope, I tend to live
in misery longer,
and thrive in nothing but a blank,
cold, bottle of
nothing....
This is where I thrive.
A mansion so huge,
you'd need too many house guests to
help you busily
pass others... Altough you may not know it.
Without love,
this place will stay lingering in the same place,
and the women and men who danced here
oh so many times, will continue to frighten,
oh don't fret,
don't laugh.
This isn't a laughing matter.
This is where
you
thrive and this is where
you live,
and this is where you will ultimately,
come to terms with your
death.
Without hope,
without love,
without imagination,
you will be nothing but
a rotting corpse utimately
dying out like the rest of pathetic
humanity!
You will die out
like a torn shell ripped from a masters
Hand!
You need this place.
You need this place.
You need to thrive here!
Why?
Oh why do you need those guests
who come to torture you?
All you need are the spirits of the past.
Don't let go of us...
let go of them!
Let us tempt you.
Let us consume you.
Let us control you.
Let go of tomorrow,
keep,
stay,
Don't leave the shadows;
your shadows;
behind!
You're pathetic,
as you have always been in the past,
you are arrogent
like you were as a foolish teenager.
Don't fret.
This is where you thrive.
This is where you live.
This is where you fall in love.
Don't let go!
NEVER let go!
The past has its bonds,
oh please,
don't fret. Don't go.
Without your hope,
which lies here,
you are nothing.
Without love,
you are whole.
Without imagination,
everyone can hurt you.
Don't let go.
Please, don't let go...
Spacious dinning rooms,
laughing, cold-hearted freaks,
and long hallways that end no where.
This is where WE live.
This is where WE thrive.
This is where she tends to make-believe.
 Deceased Poet · Wed Jan 14, 2009 @ 03:12am · 0 Comments |
