I had an iron heart and nerves of steel; but you forged me into something weak.
 Yes, I paraphrased myself from an earlier post titled ‘The Blacksmith’, to check that out click here.
 I could do with a bottle of Merlot just about now. *sigh* It’s too bad I don’t drink.)
Days and dreams and in between
The dwams and nightly fantasies
A thought occurred to me.
That seems quite unlike
All of these;
You and me
Leagues apart, never to meet.
I thought I knew
That a day will come
When this would be true.
Do none of our promises
Remain of any use?
I stand accused
Of wanting more than what is real;
Of seeing more in smoke and mirrors;
Of thinking of you as healing;
When you said it yourself –
You aren’t good for me.
“And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the Sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.”
-Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe
It’s your silence that just keeps
Screaming back at me.
You didn’t realise
That my mind capsized,
From the visions in my sleep;
From the voices of the deep.
What they whisper I cannot say.
Is that why you won’t believe me?
One day I’ll find, I promise, a way
To show you exactly what it is I dream.
Although I can’t swear on what you’ll see,
Just like you can’t swear that you won’t leave.
Days keep coming back like waves on my feet.
I can save nothing from the foam of the sea.
I’m adrift in an ocean of shipwrecked keels;
and there’s nothing I can salvage from their treasuries.
No part of the sunset that appeals to me.
All of it merges in my memories;
there’s only brown born from all the reds and greens.
Only, I drowned from swimming in the sea.
(A/N: It’s been a while since I wrote poetry that rhymed (many months to be frank) and I was nervous about posting this at all so please tell me if I should try this again!)
How is it possible to have steadiness of form without internal friction?
Who put these fairytales in our heads?
Who brainwashed us to think great?
Who said that we’re unique;
Our lives are worth living;
That we gain more than we’re giving?
I have a bone to pick with every last one of the people who said,
Because I’m not,
And I’d prefer not to be falsely fed
I have room to improve.
And don’t we all as a race?
These fairytales mean naught
More than lies, beautiful lies,
There to stop reality driving us insane.
(A/N: In response to someone who said that a magic lamp would do)