Lost in Crazy..

Let him be. Let him go on. He'll grow back ever too beautifully, forgetting the hard bitter amber, that grew out of the barks of his trees. And his two little bright stars glittering under the rain, will shine again shortly under a less jaded sun. Trees dream of a different soil, but will die taken out of their own.

I used to write. I used to write a lot when experiences were novel, when emotions were raw and original. But in a life where everything is tainted by a curse of perpetual returns and same old frustration feelings become rather banal, and too bare to be written.

It doesn't matter if you were the one that left, because they've left a hollowness inside. It doesn't matter really, because you've always been too apprehensive to admit to that wretched perforated little organ you call a heart.

Could this be your world in reverse, the denial into believe, the un-loving for what should be loved. Time.. life.. people.. washing off the significance of lost times and hearts. To all the maybes of what used to be to what it is now. Or isn't. That tune that plays singing to the little souls we were and the great desolations. Not long ago I was so strong heartedly in-faith to what in-love you used to be. Time.. life.. people.. and that fear for myself of how light I made it weigh in this parallel universe that shares no room in space with others. And I'd never understand why "nothing" cannot be a relation.

My bright beautiful little thing, All hidden wrapped up with my heart's strings in fear of you chocking up on them.

The thing is that I'm older now, and as I grew, I grew out of my need and helplessness. And it all gets easier when what's holding you down isn't your weakness, but stupid principles that you lost faith in long ago. If I'm trying so hard here you better be doing the same or else fuck you for throwing all the blame in my face. I don't know what to be, but I think that the apple had fallen far far away from the tree and all that bullshit. Blood.. is thin when you spill it all over the floor. Love.. feeds nothing but those tiny butterflies that die shortly as lumps in your throat. Time.. is all there is, so whatever crumbs I got from that saved you a whole loaf. And I.. have no value nor appreciation for half-assed jobs.

See there is a wall, and there are all those raw sentiments of emotion wrapped up pretty nicely in "not cares" and active denial. With the right sniff of never really knew me at all.