Pulse

 I don't think you'd understand,
These pages I've marveled upon,
Worded by no desires or dreams,
But torments, made of my own.

Didn't think I'd have a voice,
Forged in a tiresome soul,
Imprisoned in endless days,
Struggles, born of home.

I don't think you'd understand,
The weight these words carry,
Underneath a poorly maintained,
Pot of flowers, dead but free.

Please tell me that you can see,
The set of eyes maliciously gazing,
Biding its time for a perfect moment,
To find an end so erratically violent.

Panicked in all these rooms,
Missing a string on the board,
Waiting for that final struggle,
Ceaseless demand for an end.

I don't think you'd understand,
The wall that misses a painting,
Silently overlooked days at an end,
Finally to grasp a gaze, yet to whisk away.

At least she seems happy,
Covered in some other's arms,
Content, empowered and blissful,
Nowhere in sight, a thought of mine.

I don't think you'd understand,
How simple it used to be to love,
Radical approach on an obsession,
Pure desire, turned into a hunt.

What if the sun keeps shining on us,
Guaranteeing that it will never leave,
That it will never abandon us,
Broken and forgotten on a sidewalk.

I don't think you'd understand,
How suffocating this life truly is,
Deafening and blinding our days,
Leaving us yearning for a fogless,
Enlightened state of being.

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