true!!! huh>>?? am not sure.....

Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of Armour, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love

Desire

Desire is hiding within a blank page,
near a mugger’s knife,
or a bowl of flowers.
Near the green shaded valleys of the unknown,
or the struggling alleys of the dark.

I traded my desire for love,
and got shot dead by a tiger posing as a butterfly.

Death of the Handwritten Letter

                                          Like blood trickling
                                          From an open wound
                                          The ink once determined
                                          Its journey through the nib

                                          Onto the paper.
                                          Forming words.
                                          Beautiful. Poignant.
                                          Each curve; dot; dash
                                          Every unnecessary linger
                                          Of the pen on the paper
                                          Betraying bits and pieces
                                          Of the writer’s secrets...
                                          It withers away now.

                                          Those insinuations.
                                          Near poetic allusions.
                                          Loving salutations,

                                          Made sweeter
                                          With dabs of perfume
                                          Kissed, with the hope
                                          That the ink would magically
                                          Invoke images…

                                          Forgotten.
                                          Unthought of for ages.
                                          Almost pristine
                                          Like life stealthily taken away
                                          At its prime.


                                          It’s over.
                                          All that is left is a blinking cursor
                                          A white screen
                                          And an unfeeling keyboard.