Broken heart, love, existence, relationship
like a measured, deliberate tragedy
often leaves emotional scars to my many friends.
But to me,
it is all just a bad dream
and a twisted raindrop in a vast ocean.
sometimes, is leaking
as signals, and through body languages
after it has been detained for so long
by those who suppose to display them under the sun.
made of momentary heartbeats,
is a form of futile attachment
unless we prepare to open up our souls
in the most vulnerable ways possible
just so that we can win battles against destined fallen stars.
Or else, time will laugh at us
from many corners of life.
It hurts so much
to breath in space and crawl against poisons in time
in a hollow connection between two souls
who only love each other, conditionally.
In a universe,
where we are the victims of our own existence,
genuine love is the only antidote to our fears and sorrows.
As I keep searching for it though,
I have now learned that a genuine love itself,
is a victim of its own existence.
It is funny.
It is tiresome.
Once we sell our soul to a system of belief,
once we have bathed in the blood of ancient human delusions,
and once we have licked the bones of a pretentious love,
nothing else escape but a truthful yet bitter emotion
coming to witness the dawn of our own destruction.
like a gradual, visualizable accident
often leaves red blood in the heart of men
who forget how to cry alone in the dark.