What Scares Me Most

the things that scare me most, are not your typical fears. they are not the boogey man, or that one house down the street, they are not spiders, or snakes, heights or rain.
What scares me most, is when i close my eyes, your voice rings through my ears, i open them, and you are not there.
what i fear most you could not possibly understand, if i sat, and talked, and described to you what happens when my eyes close, you could not understand, you would not understand, it is a nightmare in intself.
what scares me most, are the memories i have, not the sweet ones i look to when i see something that reminds me, but the foul ones, the ones that i dare not speak aloud, for even writing them brings a cold sweat to my forhead.
what truly terrorizes me the most, is when i remember how nonchalantly you told me the things i did not want to hear, how you so easily described the things you did, and how it seemd to have no effect, when inside my soul was being ripped to shreds.
What i fear, is not knowing what is going on, not following your life, not knowing if you are in need of the help you are to proud to ask me for.
What i fear, are the things you did, the ways you did them, and the fact that i once was sure beyond a doubt, with every fiber of my being that you would never do those things but now i am not.
What terrorizes my body when my eyes close, are things that should not be there, things that time should have stolen away.
when i close my eyes my nightmare begins, although i rarely sleep, my body has found a way to betray me, it does not need the sleep it once did, closing my eyes is sufficient for the nightmares to consume my ever thought.
What scares me most, is that you still visit me, you flaunt these things in my face and every nightmare i have seems to remind me that i am not yours anymore.
That, is what scares me most.

Love and Hate

In Love.
Each blink of the eye records the moments which matter most, each breath brings reason to move throughout the day, reason to see that source of love. Each moment is cherished and seen with new eyes, each word is saved in the mind. A special bond between the heart exists, and that person, the one you see differently then the others, makes that love possible.That person is everything, that person is air, and food, and life, and that person is never forgotten.

In Hate.
The soul turns a different color, a nasty vile creature is what it becomes. It shames itself with impure thoughts, thoughts of death, and murder, regrets. It feeds on the emotions those fear, it kills and maims, it does not please. For those weak enough, it consumes, fueling a journey of weak and sad things, of horrible and disgusting decisions, insecurities and imperfections.

In Life.
Both exist.

The Funny Things.

How much longer will we play this game?

to go on with our lives like nothing has changed, is to accept defeat and begin to cope with it. But how then, can i not accept defeat? death? perhaps a sweet shallow quick fix? a quick solution to the problem? but in death there is no life, so how can i live if i decide that one day there might be hope.

Do i give in and accept defeat? a strategy i set into motion so that one day things may be as they once where? or do i realize that through my hopes and wishes i must see that things can never be, so death? or life with defeat?

regrets? or be free?

but can i really choose the latter? can i simply say i will be free, and be free? can saying the words outloud take from inside the regrets i hold already? will i be free simply because i want it badly enough? no.

though i can paint, and have become very good at telling stories, i can create my outer, because my inner is nothing, i can paint a picture to match your expectations, and weave a tale so thick, disbelief does not exist when the words lay upon your ears.

but happiness is not approachable, only imitable, it is not truly living to live with defeat, it's merely acting, a fine performance it shall be.

Her

She laughs. She listens and she watches,and she drinks and she drives. She cries.
she does the things she thinks will make her seem alive.She lies.

She laughs only when they do, and listenes not to them, but to herself, she watches the others, in their fluid unappealing manners, she drinks to alleviate the pain, she drives in hopes tonight is the night.

She lives. But she is dead, a walkin nothingness consumes her, she hides.

She realizes, perhaps a little to late, that life in it's grandest mysteries is often times considered great.

through pain painstakingly beautiful eyes she watches, she does what she assumes is expected, she lives.But she is dead.

When the pain comes, she allows it swallow her essence, to rip apart the very fibers of her heart, to shred the very threads of her mind, she wishes for closure, for acceptance, for recognition, it does not come.

She is no more than a droid, life is but a game, one she has mastered, she knows it's rules and abides them, she knows its boundries and does not test them.

She Lives. But She Is Dead.