Graveyard
My heart is a graveyard, and oh your voice is the dirge. Bring your flowers everyone, and decorate this old stone. Come with thy solemn songs and torture me again. My flesh was too tender and could not take the scratches. My soul was too weak to handle being alone, but lies, isn’t that what love is made of? I cannot escape this trap. I cannot run away from this pain, for she has me, like death has man. They are my masters now, the realms of sorrow and the kingdoms of gloom. You convinced me that you meant no harm and peace we brokered, but with a dagger in your hand. I watched in disbelief, as my tormenter picked a whip and spread me on my stomach. I winced as the whiskers burnt my flesh. I flinched through every stroke but I did not say. I cherished this pain, for love is never really a bed of roses, but that shroud of thorns. Oh you asked me to read your eulogy when you died, but you were writing mine all the while. Hold my head as I address the executioner. Hold me steady, as I communicate with my audience of stone. I want to see them clap, I want to see them cheer. I have scratched myself white. I let them see the inside of me, and they did not hesitate to eat me up. I have had warts break all over my skin, some with blood and puss on them, others dry and with scales, healed with no medicine but by time. It is an affliction that I brought to my doorstep, a seed that I planted in my own backyard. So love, plant thy flowers and shed your tears. Cry all you have and weep for what you have not. You drove the knife in, but why were you declared not guilty? You pulled the trigger, but why do you not show remorse? Watch as the grave dries and gone will be the memory of he that once was. The chasm is wide open, and none of us can jump over, so let me drown in it. My heart is a grave yard, and I am the corpse, buried deep inside its beaten walls.
My heart is a graveyard, and oh your voice is the dirge. Bring your flowers everyone, and decorate this old stone. Come with thy solemn songs and torture me again. My flesh was too tender and could not take the scratches. My soul was too weak to handle being alone, but lies, isn’t that what love is made of? I cannot escape this trap. I cannot run away from this pain, for she has me, like death has man. They are my masters now, the realms of sorrow and the kingdoms of gloom. You convinced me that you meant no harm and peace we brokered, but with a dagger in your hand. I watched in disbelief, as my tormenter picked a whip and spread me on my stomach. I winced as the whiskers burnt my flesh. I flinched through every stroke but I did not say. I cherished this pain, for love is never really a bed of roses, but that shroud of thorns. Oh you asked me to read your eulogy when you died, but you were writing mine all the while. Hold my head as I address the executioner. Hold me steady, as I communicate with my audience of stone. I want to see them clap, I want to see them cheer. I have scratched myself white. I let them see the inside of me, and they did not hesitate to eat me up. I have had warts break all over my skin, some with blood and puss on them, others dry and with scales, healed with no medicine but by time. It is an affliction that I brought to my doorstep, a seed that I planted in my own backyard. So love, plant thy flowers and shed your tears. Cry all you have and weep for what you have not. You drove the knife in, but why were you declared not guilty? You pulled the trigger, but why do you not show remorse? Watch as the grave dries and gone will be the memory of he that once was. The chasm is wide open, and none of us can jump over, so let me drown in it. My heart is a grave yard, and I am the corpse, buried deep inside its beaten walls.
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