Who was she to he
Can we ever be sure
Do we really know
Really love
Really live for
Someone else to be special
Imprint on us charm
And disarm us of weapons
With which we do harm
To each other
In-lovers
Can never recover
If in coalescence
They do not discover
The secret identities
Even to them
Are uncertain
The roles that we play
Are pretend
Artifices
Illusions
Contusions
A bruise on the soft, silky
Smooth subterfuges
Deceit will eventually
Entropy coax
The dependency
Bend the knee
Vows to be broke
Or discordant performance’s
Suicide notes
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Confessions of an Empath
The birds are chirping, and the sun is shining in a cloudless July sky. The vibrancy promises a beautiful day, but the cooing of the Mourning Dove perched on the powerlines seems to be more fitting than the lively songs of the robin flitting through the trees. The melancholic calls of the dove cloak the world in a sadness that hangs like tattered drapes.
By Alyssa Nicoleabout 19 hours ago in Confessions
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