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LifeBlurring, aching, shaking, breaking.
No hope, no chance, no desire, no life.
Remember, linger, ponder, wonder.
No why, no reason, no hint, no answer.
Worry, hate, fear, escape.
The Joker and The ThiefThe world is but a Joker and a Thief.
A show and tell of love and hate.
Illusions of knowledge and power.
While true nature's fate mocks and laughs.
Stealing hopes, dreams, and life.
One may believe, hope, and wish for
life to have its triumphs and failures.
Alas this is all but the Joker's tale.
The tale is told as the thief does his dues.
Stealing any chance of power.
For we are not actors on this stage,
nor are we the spectators,
rather, we are the stage itself.
The base on which the joke is being told.
ToxinFaster faster they travel,
moving through every cell.
Corrupting. Polluting. Intoxicating.
Louder louder he yells,
at every one he loves.
Hurting. Punishing. Breaking.
Further further it goes,
changing every known feature.
Forgetting. Vanishing. Leaving.
Harder harder they struggle,
dangling on every faint hope.
Praying. Begging. Loving.
Brighter brighter is the light,
radiating to every corner.
Inviting. Welcoming. Caring.
Warmer warmer his eyes
become with every minute.
Surviving. Controlling. Conquering.
Defenses are up, guards are posted, the locks on the door.
Standing outside is a person, like many before.
Waiting, pleading, and begging to be let in.
But the man in the tower only looks down with caring eyes.
Because no one is ever let in.
Hours become days.
She stays and waits.
Days become weeks.
She is still standing outside, with the guards now gone.
Weeks become months.
She remains loyal, and the door unlocks.
Suddenly the tower changes from its gloomy state.
To a happier, and more loving place.
Life is great, the world is anew, everything because she had stayed true.
Defenses are gone, and hope is all that is left.
For the man believes that she is the one.
No longer did he have a watchful eye on his future wife to be.
But as he moved into the other room, his eye no longer fixed,
And as she passed under the tower doors,
The cornerstone was moved.
And the tower began to crumble.
Underneath the rubble the man is broken and torn.
And with the little strength he has, he sta
The BottleThe bottle hits the ground as I cover my face.
Her memory fills my thoughts of her loving grace.
As the bottle rolls away, I remember the day.
The day she cried and walked away.
Her love was strong, true, and caring.
Yet I chose the empty and sorrowed bottle.
Its toxins I craved but now despise.
For I lost.
I lost the love of my life.
A ChainA chain is rugged, restricting and strong.
Held by those who are too scared to let go.
Long or short, its bond does not break.
The victims are stopped short of their desires.
Such selfishness and doubt, I could not imagine.
For I hold my heart, rather the chain.
It is scared and tough, but healed.
Distance plays no part, its bond does not break.
The privileged are left to their hopes and dreams.
Such caring and devotion, I strive to maintain.
The Bitter End Version 2I stay up late at night wondering of what could be.
Wondering why this anguish comes so readily.
Through sorrow, through pain, I stay, I live.
Live for the moments that bless my life.
Will I fall, will I break, how much more can I take?
We are but pawns in a world full of deceit.
Where must fight to survive, and defeat.
While still embracing the moments that take our breath away.
And never stop searching for what could be.
Many have died for an idea, a cause, an image.
Those regular people, that we see every day.
Who will never be noticed until the day,
When they stop following the standards,
And start leading with principles.
Will I fall, will I break, will I die before I wake?
There is but hope, it comes ever so often.
In an image, in a thought, in the world of dark.
Will I be strong to lead, will I be noticed?
I only have a feeling, a feeling I have learned,
That love is worth living for, through the bitter end.
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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