Manacled in ink.
This was written over the identity crisis I recently went through. The flow is completely off and it's all rather chaotic because my head was a mess of words... I would, however, like to see what you make of it, no matter how harsh you might be. XD
Manacled in ink.
Isolation; and pens scribble over the tear-soaked paper,
Spitting up random words, coughing up hate
Aching over lost trust and futile tries.
And bitter, battered and bruised hearts unite, led by one.
We roam in a quest without a cause; we can always make it up later.
(Time is of no importance in our ink-lined world.)
Like our heroes – we’ll fight for nothing until it is too late
We will fight for nothing until we are no more than lingering, transparent white lies.
Marching balefully to our tinted end – into the honest sun.
(Honesty tends to look crooked when formed into a word.)
Dreams; our romance with Death met its woeful end –
Once succumbed it lost its tragic flare
And now terror-stricken eyes whisper of their horrific realization –
Our past was foreseen in a horrendous kismet
(Mannequins of fate? Star-crossed and spellbound to the tragedy? Our kinds of roles.)
Words promised us the perfect play, the script so life-like, with the power to repent…
Then it all fell apart. But do we care?
(Do we cry when we reduce our lives to a dull dissertation?)
And the Future is forgotten, captured in a well-worded, scribbled regret.
See; life is not romantic, it is cruelly real, so live –
Scar and bleed and laugh and hurt,
Walk into the sunset,
Incinerate and burn
Rip open your chest and give… Give.
When Death chants your name, succumb, smile and flirt,
Kiss its lips and take your turn –
Break away from the cage of a written word.
Manacled in ink.
Isolation; and pens scribble over the tear-soaked paper,
Spitting up random words, coughing up hate
Aching over lost trust and futile tries.
And bitter, battered and bruised hearts unite, led by one.
We roam in a quest without a cause; we can always make it up later.
(Time is of no importance in our ink-lined world.)
Like our heroes – we’ll fight for nothing until it is too late
We will fight for nothing until we are no more than lingering, transparent white lies.
Marching balefully to our tinted end – into the honest sun.
(Honesty tends to look crooked when formed into a word.)
Dreams; our romance with Death met its woeful end –
Once succumbed it lost its tragic flare
And now terror-stricken eyes whisper of their horrific realization –
Our past was foreseen in a horrendous kismet
(Mannequins of fate? Star-crossed and spellbound to the tragedy? Our kinds of roles.)
Words promised us the perfect play, the script so life-like, with the power to repent…
Then it all fell apart. But do we care?
(Do we cry when we reduce our lives to a dull dissertation?)
And the Future is forgotten, captured in a well-worded, scribbled regret.
See; life is not romantic, it is cruelly real, so live –
Scar and bleed and laugh and hurt,
Walk into the sunset,
Incinerate and burn
Rip open your chest and give… Give.
When Death chants your name, succumb, smile and flirt,
Kiss its lips and take your turn –
Break away from the cage of a written word.