Wednesday, October 16, 2013

Yank of the Heart.

I'm grudgingly waiting,
To face the day,
Where you'll be daunting,
And fade away.

When in this now,
I feel secure,
Though this you give me,
My heart feels impure.

The day has come
Where love has burrowed
Back into my soul.

It will stay there
Until there comes
A reason for it to hold,

My heart in its grasp,
Tightly and firmly,
To never again let it go.

The next time I gouge it out,
It wont be for naught,
It'll be because I know.

Alone, not lonely.

Born alone, die alone. Does that mean we have to stay alone so it doesn't hurt as much to be left or to leave? 

I prefer solitude lest I be disappointed by my own expectations of people.  


No life is a solitary life, sans companions true or conveniently periodical. There will not be any colour to that painting of life. 

So how can you commit to keeping of the heart, to allow entrance to no one. 

Wear your heart on your sleeve and things get messy. Keep your heart locked and things get rigid. 

Solitude is simplicity, it is solace. But it's the kind of solace with which you are never truly content. It's the solace you wish was enough.

So shall I remain a solitary being, or shall I go about being a walking hypocrite. For when I prefer time alone, I'll be too busy pretending to bask in the ambience of company to give thought to the exhilarating side of depending on no one.