Love. What?

Love.

You have hurt me in so many levels.

Love has ment to me renouncing and bouncing.

There are too many words said, that are heart breaking.

Every time you had a chance to hurt me, you have grabbed.

My soul which was given has broken again and again.

But I still crave the beautiful wonderful time when you gave yourself to me, and no I'm not crazy, or am I? 

My brother was. 

Will I follow, cloak up and give up?

The still, the look, the spark. It is there? 

And no, yes, I have erupted and shilly unsaid all those things.

It is me: the giver, the beholder, the watcher, the griever.

I have wantly let you.

I have wantly chased that rage, wittingly purposedly fueled it. 

I know, you know.

In my shell I await, undressed for your pity to ligh up, to grow.

Do I need it? Do we?

My own course is my curse.

Is it a reflection of my unwanted memories? 

Do I seek it? 

Now in admiration of a girl that defies and definetely shocks, am I seeking for redemption?

I wonder,

Of my own capacity.

Of my will.

I await in shady celluloid dreams at the fate that wallows, in my mind.

I'm not special, but If I give in, will love succeed?

Or will I be lost in a cause that has no cause, no threat, no gain and no exit?

I can't be a porn star. I'm 50 and fat, willingly.

In fact I don't want to be a star at all, being noticed is a curse, not a win.

Silent woods, with shy kills, is the fate of any fighter.

Unless you crave to be a mass murderer.

I don't. 

I want to burn with a noticeable flame. If I flame at all.

Fire is a high.

Now I'm a low.

I miss you mother.

I miss the way you did not trust me.