I've been really depressed lately. Wondering why I bother with things like love and friendship when sometimes...all that happens is that they forget I was there or they end up back in the same situation. Something interesting happens when I write. Things come out of my head that I didn't know were there. When I wrote this poem, I didn't know how it would end. But now that I have written and read it, I understand myself a bit better. Maybe you will, too.. Comments and critiques are welcome.
~Why...~
Why bother having a heart to feel
when it is marked with naught but the p*censored*ing heels
of people and souls you lay before,
a bridge in the storm,
when your body is broken and bleeding and torn?
When the blood that beats within your veins
is spilled for their sake, for nothing, in vain?
When the smile you wear as a comforting thing
is dull and tarnished like an old br*censored* ring?
Why bother to offer a word or care
when all they will do is stare and glare
and turn from you when the storm breaks
and they no longer need you there?
When you are a husk, a doll, a shell,
living on in this lonelier Hell,
where your existence is based upon their need
and that desire is nothing but an old dead seed?
When love no longer sprouts or glows
and everyone who sees you p*censored*es and knows
that this old and beaten and worn down stone
will never find a single heart to call home?
Why bother to see or feel or know
when all that will happen will be buried in snow
and their hearts will once again beat cold
and the rain will fall and the pain will grow bold
and sharp as a raven's claw?
This husk, this stone, this claw, this shell,
though worn and broken and cracked like a bell
whose casters were flawed and could not see
that the first strike would be the last
and the ringing would cease to be,
sits and waits and pines and hopes..
That a lasting smile it may some day bring,
like the shine of a newly polished gold and diamond ring.