heart Emoness from Emily heart
Also, strange things on the second page and beyond...?
Another practice forum!
Also, strange things on the second page and beyond...?
Another practice forum!
I guess it’s hard to say what has made everything so hard.
After everything, I am the same, yet different, a canvas still blank, yet secretly covered in invisible ink.
When darkness comes and you shine your light, the very fiber of my soul is lit up to you.
Pathetic.
I am a pathetic mess, sitting here silent, waiting for you to move, yet too lazy to greet you when you come through the door.
How should I feel?
Am I worthy?
No.
If you were to leave, I would feel no different.
If you came into me, I would truly know what it all means and the tears would rush down.
Yet I wait for you, silent, unquestioning.
Such unbearable silence, yet I bear through, numbly waiting.
When you touch my heart I can feel; the numbness melts away along with the ice of my inside, and that is why my tears are so cold.
Pathetic.
Still, I am unable to move!
Even with you inside, my joy will fade like all the times before, because the noise becomes too loud and your whispering gentleness is not what I have been trained to hear.
Why can I not move?
Am I so feeble?
Is it all nothing, as my heart continues to beat out in Morse code?
When I walk, I stumble.
I do not know if you are there.
All I know is nothingness.
I can feel no remorse for what I have done, for my heart seems too lethargic to address the sin that coats it.
The darkness and the blackness I welcome, unknowingly, unceasingly.
My heart is the lump of coal that I find in my Christmas stoking every year, no matter how hard I try.
Even the pouring out of my melting heart has become nothing to me.
After everything, I am the same, yet different, a canvas still blank, yet secretly covered in invisible ink.
When darkness comes and you shine your light, the very fiber of my soul is lit up to you.
Pathetic.
I am a pathetic mess, sitting here silent, waiting for you to move, yet too lazy to greet you when you come through the door.
How should I feel?
Am I worthy?
No.
If you were to leave, I would feel no different.
If you came into me, I would truly know what it all means and the tears would rush down.
Yet I wait for you, silent, unquestioning.
Such unbearable silence, yet I bear through, numbly waiting.
When you touch my heart I can feel; the numbness melts away along with the ice of my inside, and that is why my tears are so cold.
Pathetic.
Still, I am unable to move!
Even with you inside, my joy will fade like all the times before, because the noise becomes too loud and your whispering gentleness is not what I have been trained to hear.
Why can I not move?
Am I so feeble?
Is it all nothing, as my heart continues to beat out in Morse code?
When I walk, I stumble.
I do not know if you are there.
All I know is nothingness.
I can feel no remorse for what I have done, for my heart seems too lethargic to address the sin that coats it.
The darkness and the blackness I welcome, unknowingly, unceasingly.
My heart is the lump of coal that I find in my Christmas stoking every year, no matter how hard I try.
Even the pouring out of my melting heart has become nothing to me.