Heavy.

It's a strange place to be in; one's lover depressed when one, too, is depressed. Once tries to hide one's depression so as not to bring the other down, while the other tries to as well, but the one notices and feels it.

I ask her to talk to me, but she doesn't want to. I feel perhaps I should start talking, then. I am weary and worried and wishing I could make her smile. We are not responsible for each others happiness, but we sure help each other in that regard. So when I fail to make her even a little brighter, well, I feel pretty useless... especially in light of all else that goes on around me lately. I can't seem to make any progress in just about all my endeavors. Things feels so mired and now the one comforting thing about my life is in a difficult stage.

It's strange: I want to comfort her. I want to ravage her. I want to kiss her. I want to eat her out. I want to sing to her. I want to go inside her. I want to hold her close to my chest. I want to taste her swollen tongue.

I want to fill her with emotions and thus be filled myself. Are we drowning?

Feeble Beeble

Feeling so tired. So weary. So open. So frail.

There is so little I can do right now, it seems. You are here, within reach, but I can't summon the magic to make you smile. I can't summon a single spark.

I am feeble yet honest. A bad combination, perhaps?

I have no way of knowing what I'm supposed to do right now. Let it slide? Let things be and just stand meekly in the corner while it all passes by?

I don't understand. I don't understand. I don't understand.

Somebody throw me a line? Throw me a bone? Anybody...?

Them's the breaks, people.

According

To a certain web app, I write a little like one of the sci-fi masters...

I write like
Arthur Clarke

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

Warts

So here we are again; warts revealed, ugly bumps painfully visible under the accusing light of the sun. The last
time I was here, exposed, I was loathed for all that I was, all that I am. So the question is posed anew: Can I
be loved, warts and all? Can she love me knowing my faults?

It's selfish of me, perhaps, to be yearning to be loved. To be seen for my faults and still be found worthy of love.
To be seen as the frail human being I have always been and, somehow, still seem beautiful to her.

Will she see that I long to be able to overcome these faults in me? To assuage my character flaws and become a better man?
Will she see that she's a reason for me to be a better person?

I make oceans out of puddles, I know. But the little things are the ones that kill... and I am so little.

I am horrible, I know. I am ugly inside, I know. I am flaw upon flaw; layers of wrong. But am I still worthy of
of the privilege?

Can I fulfill her? Can I see her for who she truly is? Can I come to understand her? Am I simply too obtuse to do so?
Will the same revealing light that shines upon me be cast on her? Will I find her as beautiful as I have found her thus
far?

Madness, this intensity of emotion. This is madness. Irrational is what I have become. Where have I left my self-control?
Where are my measured movements and calculated actions? I am at a loss, for I know nothing of where these may
have eloped to, married and off on some journey wherefrom I will never see them returned...

Madness. Sweet, painful, joyful madness. Dark, warm, heartwrenching madness. She is my madness.

Mynos

It's a strange feeling... after all this time... and yet not being so long...
from a logical standpoint.

I am at a loss for words to describe this elation... this sated feeling, this...
unbelievable feeling of well being.

Crash and burn... perhaps... but I am lost inside this labyrinth... I am lost and am quite glad.

Weep Not

So the circus ensues.
The clown follows suit
In the rain, in the soot
Lo! The circus ensues.

In the mire of emotions
Swelling like the mighty oceans
Kept at bay by strengthened walls

My, the curtains fall heavy
And the lamp's light grows dim
While it witnesses their sin
How the curtains fall heavy

In my eyes, bearing witness
In the light of the cold stars
Faceless specters of the night
In the windy hush, there, listless
In the expanse of our personal wars

Call the hounds that bay
Let them slobber over my bones
That the crows may have no homes
Hear, the hounds that bay

In the desert of illusion
Not unlike that blood transfusion
Strip away the bloody walls

Yearn for the heart that has gone
Away with the hope of child-like wonder
In the dead of night, I ponder
And mourn for the heart that has gone.