Tag Archives: soul

As I sit here

As I sit here I think of nothing else. Nothing else at all but the one, one and only  – or is it lonely? – thought. The thought, the thought, the thought like a plague that starts small and takes you to the grave. The grave of my soul, the grave of my heart, the grave of my life to end it all. End it all at once, but not my life, but not my soul, but not my heart, but that one lonely, only plague-like thought.

The thought of thoughts, the only one. But multiplying until there is none. None other, no others, not many and not few. An image and smile and then all it’s done. Done forever, done for never, done and done and done again. A cycle that never ends. A cycle, a cycle, a bicycle that goes and goes and never gets there.

A never ending story, a never ending cycle of cycles as it repeats and repeats but is never the same and always . . . always the end. The same end, a different story but along came a spider, a story? A cycle? Again and again I go. First, I was blind, then I was naive, and now with my eyes wide open and my heart cracked and broken. For what else can one thought do if it has already taken my heart and my soul? It has taken all, has taken me and myself and my oxidized heart, in pieces and stitched up.

Stitched up heart, a stitched up soul, a stitched up life. A life made up, a life created, a life lived and now pervaded by one little lonely thought, a life so full, a life so lost and a life yet found. Found a life, found a heart, found a smile and there it is. It is a lonely, little thought that kills me slowly and gives me life. The life of hopeless romantics which I am not. The life of  . . . of those I don’t want to be, the life, the life I don’t want to live.

And yet, I live, I live beyond this lonely thought. I live as if it does not exist and I push and push until is nearly gone. Forgotten it stays until the end of the day,

Advertisements

In love

I love him, I love him so,

I feel his pain as mine, he does not feel mine so,

To wait in vain for him to come,

To conquer his fear, but he does not,

He walks alone, but then I see,

He loves me so? But no, not ever, no . . . 

I endure the pain, my broken soul,

I walk away with my broken pieces nothing more,

To him I went, but no more,

To him, for him my heart yearns so much,

He knows not how deep in my soul he is?

He wonders why I don’t come back to him?

No, he knows not,

No, he wonders not,

No, his fear is his, 

No, my love is mine.

The way I feel now

They burn my face, the cut my skin leaving behind the proof of my emptiness.

I bear the scars of my love and my loss and the pain . . . The pain so sweet and the release so complete.

The oblivion and the darkness of death calls me to them. Or are they in me already?

The numbness spreads from within me, the ice.

The ice sharp as needles, from inside me slowly crawling to the surface.

To feel it. To feel nothing. To slowly give in.

Accept to be one, only one. In the cold, in the darkness, in the arid emptiness of human life.

Pain

I laugh and laugh all through my tears, for whom or what I do not know. For me, I think, for my battered soul, or is it my heart that took the toll? My heart, my mind, I’m loosing both for something that doesn’t last or even exist, of this I’m sure.
For pain it comes from knowing not, confusion and being lost. Lost in someone? Lost somewhere? Lost every day and everywhere.
The pain it comes from within, for me and for him. Not to see, not to understand, to talk, to hear, but exactly what? What I say but not what I mean. I don’t understand and neither does he.
And this is where we stand. Confused, in pain, not knowing what is what. I wonder if we’ll ever understand what we really mean when we talk.

Anthony David

It seems I am at the end and the beginning, of what it is gone and what it is to come. 

For what may come, I can only dream it, wish it and either, wait for it or run to it. But it would be to run into nothingness.

My dreams come true, if only . . . A memory only or wishful thinking. Unrealistic, exactly, I know reality too well.

To be loved why does it seem that we are not to love ourselves too? To be loved why does it seem that we are to sacrifice our heart and soul?

To keep them, to keep myself then it is for me the endless death of ongoing existence. Or it could only be that I feel sad today and tomorrow he will be gone from my thoughts.

Gone forever, until I see him again or hear him, or maybe until I see a cat or hear the rain. I’ll  forget him until my next Sunday morning cup of coffee.

Or maybe tomorrow I’ll remember when I was hurt, or when I cried, or when I didn’t understand and this thoughts will push him out of my mind.

At the end and at the beginning as it is suppose to be. To make room for what it is to come some things need to be gone. 

Gone, but not gone, never or maybe always.