Your-Soul-In-Writing

You are a musician Tonight I am your instrument

The broken glass at my feet, Shattered into the millions of pieces I empathize with, The pieces so lost and broken, Who cry with angelic voices of a forbidden harmony, The only sounds I hear, The only beauty, I could ever feel, Between reality, And, Screeching tires, This is the end of the pain, The end of the road, If only, I could let go. The wind rushing past my skeleton skin, Trying to cleans the mass of pain that's harbored in my body, Trying to seal the hole that's taken refuge in my heart, These verbal bullet wounds in my soul, Make the fall so much easier, As I ache to slam into the pavement, Beg to be buried under six feet piles of

Death of the Broken Hearted When I was young I fell away from life, I fell into a dark deep sleep from which I would never wake. Watching, as if from above, I saw them prepare me for the grave. They dressed me in black silk with a red rose in my hair. Nobody could tell why I had died. But I knew, I died of a broken heart. You broke my fragil heart into pieces just like it was made of glass. I tried to go on living but I cannot live without a beating heart. So now I lie, cold and dead in my grave. Are you happy now?