Betrayal
Love is betrayal
A knife in the heart.
A stone that breaks my bones
Love is betrayal,
that lies to you about dreams of care and kindness,
but stabs you in the back
with disloyality
when you are not looking.
Is it possible for a writer to face so much heartbreak?
Is it possible to be faced with so much pain,
that if I had a penny for every time I'd had my heartbroken
I'd be a millionaire five times over.
It is true,
I am not lying to you;
why should I?
Love is betrayal
I can't take the pain anymore
to feel such pain, I'd rather whether just ask the Gods
to strike me down with painless and peaceful death,
and sleep as the faceless faces come and place lilacs
and roses upon my chamber of the dead.
What killed this lonesome writer, who loved everyone,
but was showed no love before?
I heard he died of a broken heart,
and that was what it was... A broken heart.
Love is betrayal,
trust me
for I cannot waste a single moment more
feeling this pain deep in my heart
that tears at my soul and heart with shapened talons.
Keep sleeping, with your eyes so blind,
can't you see what you are doing to me?
If you'd feel my pain, you'd sit down with me and weap.
It is easy to read these wordless words, that probably have no meaning to you.
To me this is poetry that sings songs of sorrow,
that fuses my heart together and plays songs of saddness
as I sit in a lonesome cell, praying for betrayal to leave,
leaving not a single trace of its existence.
Love is betrayal,
a knife stabbed deep in the heart.
A stone that is thrown at my mirror of transperanecy.
Can you see the pain that love has given me?
I was brought up to believe love is a magical thing,
a true feeling that makes you think diffrently about strangers.
Strangers are strange, with blind eyes
they cannot see what they do too me,
when they blindly stab away at my heart with their heated blades.
Love is a betrayal
that goes behind your back
and laughs at your sorrowed soul,
and as you turn to them all, they come all with smiles and hugs.
Once I turn again they laugh again,
and take their blade and stabs me in the back.
And I cry, but no one stops and listens,
No one cares, truely cares for my sorrow.
So, I wipe away my tears
remove the knives from my heart,
and I walk down the lonesome boulevards
Listening to the sorrow cries of lovers kissing on park benches.
Then I slowly awake from this dream,
but I cannot, for this dream is not in a surrealist piece of work,
for it is realism at its best.
Love is betrayal... love
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