writing Destruction of the Heart

[Ferret Girl 2,642]

"I understand, perhaps as well as anyone does, of the matter of feelings that we all hold inside of us. To this matter however, comes a different understanding, one of transformation and conveyance. To hold true in that definition of fellings, is to be sure of life's true rectitude. Meaning, without guidance, is as meaningless as people can imagine.  In fact, our imagination is actually what gives us meaning, so by such, why is it that we do not all embrace that one true understanding of feeling?  Is emotion truly that complex of a thing?

 

It really matters not what people think of eachother. If we focused more about the minds of others as real individuals, then we would truly grant ourselves that freedom of knowledge. Knowledge of other's pure intent.

 

Do you even understand what I am trying to tell you all? I will be honest, I don't expect the majority of you to even come close to the terms I represented here. This poetry, it really is such a pointless thing, but, then again, poetry is more so for the enjoyment of the writer, or to serve as a reminder of things that should be. They won't let a memory rest, and such is why I write."

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Destruction of the Heart

 

 

 

Once more, into all the feelings I will ever know.

All that cares to caress the real me, as one to be withdrawn.

And I know not who would stand against this.

Anything and everything of melancholy, I accept it.

 

Here comes my pain again.

 

But here on this day, of fermented joys and mere echoes of laughs,

Here I sit, and squander about my pain a I myself am the cause.

Memories that never seem to pass over.

Remnents of events that are best left forgotten.

 

Here comes my pain again, and all words used to describe it.

 

As the little girl will cry, and the little boy stares at the dust.

Both children of a Earth which cares not for them.

Merely children of vacant expresion and emotions that contort their forms.

Children with masks to hide behind.

 

Here comes my pain again, and why I write, I ask myself.

 

No more shadows left to hide me.

Forced to leave comfort and contemplate suicide.

Left alone, abandoned, and cherished all the same?

Drenched in my blood again, does it ever end?

 

Here comes my pain again, tearing down my walls.

 

Through bloodshot eyes and phantom tales.

This is how the world wishes me to rot.

They need not wait too long, with a knife and will in one hand.

It isn't hard to end everything.

 

Here comes my pain again, a wish upon a star.

 

Dragging my feet through halls of mirrors.

My stance on life, as unchanging as my reflection on every surface.

Becomming who we are, ever so the greatest challenge.

Feeling the beating of my heart once more.

 

Here comes my pain again, can I end it all right now?

 

Without the hope once promised, I am nothing.

I can hear the little girl sobbing, and see the little boy dying.

But what are they to me, these children of the Earth?

Little did I know, that I too, was wearing a mask.

 

Here comes my pain again, and no one ever cares.

 

As my memories rest, like fire's last few breaths,

Only now can feeling the beats of my own existence do I realize my true crimes.

My loss of hope, will, and joy of better things.

Damned, and ever so willing

 

No longer this pain.

 

 

 

 

 

-David Favret