[*gasp!* Misia, is this a love poem? NO. it is not a love poem. It’s everything but a love poem. Just read it. I’ve been having some feels lately. enjoy.]
Some things on this planet
Are just so painfully obvious to see
They seem to just disappear under the trusted sight
That our eyes behold
And slip past the simple minds of creatures
Like you and me.
Like when letting your guard down,
You might as well be signing your soul and mind away to the heart
For you know rhythms old scent of loneliness
Will always come back around.
But no matter how un-circular you make that mirror,
The thought of the other side always seems clearer
When your opaque walls are down.
It’s possible that the mastermind behind this plan is of the
Human’s uncontrollable hunger for all things challengingly simple.
But to see what is so painstakingly obvious,
Take a look past the transparent clarity of the mirror.
Far beyond you, and far beyond what the reflection simply hides.
That’s where the ghosts like me dwell,
With the white sheet of hatred, always over ourselves.
Not the broken hearted,
But the masters of the art of heart breaking.
You may believe that we have nothing,
but the warming comfort
of our cold, stone-hard hearts,
that don’t crumble under the pressure
of the slightest sob of a child.
To you we are the contracting colour
of the beautiful baby blues and whites,
the pure broken-hearted people
that make up the content depression in the world.
The only exception is to the ghosts that travel
the unspoken roads of the world.
Once again, the now less-trusted sense of sight
chips away another part of the protective coat of polish off of our hearts.
If you take a closer look by moving away,
You’ll understand what I’m trying to say.
You cannot simply compare.
If we’re looking passed what everyone possesses and compare the similarity.
We, the heart breakers,
Have the same pale translucency in our skin and bones,
as dull as the darkest depths of our bodies may be,
there lies a tiny ill-protected heart,
just waiting to be torn out
in the most vicious, brutal and quiet way imaginable.
We breakers of this poor center
fail to keep ourselves from deteriorating alone with them.
When the knife slices through skin and bone,
It will never be as sharp as it has been before.
Time and time again, soon the master cutters will be left
with nothing but the bitter sweet feeling
of the cold-hearted blood on their hands.
The only time, which we hope our eyes are deceiving,
we realize that this time around
the mirror is reflecting back at ourselves,
and not the mysterious unwanted utopia where people like me dwell.
We’ve become the broken hearted,
and in this simple challenge we have upon us-
we will never know if in the end,
The breaking of the fragile muscle, is really, always in our hands.
September 6, 2012