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A nice piece of "poetry" from my book... the only one I call MY book... It is a great deal to me... This is said to be a new platau of writings to others but to me it isn't.

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Thoughts of your joys and sorrows, your life and death, your ability and potential. You see it not within yourself, so require for this I... this "me", yourself, my pride.
I once thought I felt nothing within myself.. A faceless shadow hiding within the eternal void that is the darkness of human hearts. However, this was a lie, I do feel... or at least, many greatly hope that I do.
Many hope that it would be possible for me to care... possible for me to feel... to touch. Though you say it is some sick form of saying you care, I feel your hands wanting to "lovingly" grasp my heart and hold onto my soul.
Your concept of love is painful for me to feel so I wish to hide away. Finding only [Comfort In Darkness] where I can sleep peacefully against your cold loneliness. Revel and bask in the painful memories of your soul, bathe in the sorrowful tears of your heart.
You think.. or rather you seem to want me to think, that you care... or rather you may mistakenly feel I want you to care. It is more pitiful than sad, that which you so willingly put me through.
Happiness is a rare gift given to those who are deserving of it. How can you give me something you never had, then expect me to grant it back to you, so willingly... so wantingly. Almost as if you thought I cared...
I would sigh at these thoughts, but a smirk would cross my lips. I would feel a sick, twisted contentedness, if I thought that it was true. How pitiful it would be for me to look upon you,
"IF I EVER THOUGHT........ THAT YOU THINK I WOULD EVER CARE TO "LOVE" SOMETHING THAT WOULD BE AS....... "YOU" ......"

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