Last of The Sad

The bells rang in the dark,
and sounded alarms, soft whispers
that the blackness was about to swallow
all life. All skin would be burnt, charred and
the only parts that would bleed would be the mind.
Internal bleeding that would drip only into the
void that was already there. No evidence to think over.

A one man army adds layers to the fortress that surrounds
the treasures that are neatly ribboned boxes containing only
fear, pain, and theories of what a better world would look like.
What a giant mind could do if it wasn’t so crippled by fear, or if
it wasn’t so bored is screamed just to feel the throat muscles move.
A sign that it is still alive. That it can feel.
That self-preservation is still a possibility.

He does what he thinks makes other people happy at the expense of
his better judgement. He offers lip service and gifts and suggestions that
are the same as hands outstretched holding intensity that will only
fall through his fingers and be lost. Like wind in a storm. It shoves the body
in a beautiful dance, and then disappears as fast as it came.
His hands are beautiful but they are not his own.

She drips her inadequacies at the same time as she spills anger. The
tightly ribboned boxes are hidden well. In her own internal hell.
She speaks her mind. She says what she means and she means what she says
and she makes other people feel good. Time and time again. They smile. They love.
They need, and they feed off the tangible energy that the good feeling is. It soaks
through to the blackened bones of those who don’t know.
They don’t know.


She is like a drug that you can only take a few times, before realising that
that it’s slow release effects aren’t quite what you paid for. The packaging isn’t
pretty enough. The effect wares off faster, and the trip to the moon and back is
a short lived journey. Because, once back, you have been there and done that.
But that is human nature. Fickle words. Words that fall from lips that mean nothing.

So when people ask her ‘Why do you keep people at arm’s length?’
Her soft reply, will always be, ‘Because I make people feel good, and then they walk away,
when they realise that the package I come in isn’t what they want. They are taken by my ferocity, my brain, my intensity, and for a moment what I ‘feel’ like, but it is short lived.
Always. Without exception.
And I am tired of not being good enough. Of being held up to some standard
that I can’t be. I won’t be. Because it’s not me.


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