Artistic Pain

High…

As I'm looking up at the ceiling, eyes low, thinking of what I can piece together.

Freezing, i.e this weather.

Wondering if she and I will ever speak again.

As I try not to weep anymore.

I lay hoping my soul rests.

Rests away from depression, anger, pain and fear.

For there shall be no more stress within my soul, because my true lover has appeared.

Injured, scarred, lost, in a whirlwind of assumptions of despair that should not be captured as normality in the air.

He's broken and has been taken to be my token.

Something used and used, over and over again.

Repeatedly, until the value of it depreciates, beaten, scratched and broken.

Or until another token gets re-engineered.

My love for him isn't love.

His love for me is what he thinks is love.

He's on my mind, always wants to be around.

So my thoughts of you for the moment are non-existent.

Or co-existing.

Your present...I said to keep because of my stubbornness.

But honestly…the only gift to me would be you…that Is the only thing I'd accept.

You.

Standing next to me. Your presence.

You.

At my door step attempting to look through the tinted glass

You.

Kissing me softly as your lips press against mine with your tongue slowly intertwining with mine as I grab you from behind.

But I have him now…

So, there's no point of trying to get your attention.

I have it from him.

No point of speaking to you.

Awaiting your responses; You slowly texting.

Taking your own good time.

Because of her.

Her…the woman you told me I shouldn't worry about…you're with.

You stabbed my heart…

Ripped it apart.

Such a gore scene…

She's such an amazing Artist…

Isn't she?