The Scientist
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Jan 1, 2003
- Messages
- 5
I wrote this 4 years ago, and just found it today.
This is my first post in words.
I've lurked for a while, but never thought about adding anything.
thanks in advance for your time
--
have you ever been sick of being love-sick?
listening to songs over and over that just add to your illness?
and all you wish is to be in a place
where you, yourself, are not being used over and over again
by those you just wish would return a speck of the admiration
that you seem to be gushing from the tips of your heartstrings?
Maybe you should leave.
Leave this place, and go to a far-off locale,
where you can start over, and not have to be reminded
day after day after day after day
of everything you've done wrong.
A magical place that exists far enough to understand
that you're not running away from those you can't stand to be around
but that you're running away from yourself.
You're (I'm) not a bad person,
I'm (You're) just a horribly selfish one.
You (I) just want to be loved,
and have someone love you (me) in return.
Love in such a way that there's no confusion
no misunderstanding.
no one-sided angst that perpetuates
the insecure loneliness that takes you (me) over
when you're (we're) alone in bed
on those cold nights,
where the wind whips around your one-roomed soul.
The room that doesn't really have any room for anyone else.
I have room.
But there's no one to share that room with.
So, I walk around, over and over,
cleaning the closets of my heart,
looking through the items left behind by former lovers.
A shirt.
a pair of jeans.
a book.
a note.
a letter or two.
some music that I play on the piano,
over and over.
music I wrote for those who'll never hear it.
music that I still have memorized,
playing to an empty concert hall.
Empty seats filled with reminders,
of the failures that plauge.
Some say that being love-sick is just a social disease,
fate's hand holding you over life's cliff.
dangling, just waiting for that hand to let go
as you fall into the seemingly empty canyon,
but it's filled with all those others,
who died from their sickness.
sometimes I wish I would die from this love-sickness.
but with each twist of the knive,
we continue to live,
over and over.
desiring to love again.
to make things right for all of us.
This is my first post in words.
I've lurked for a while, but never thought about adding anything.
thanks in advance for your time
--
have you ever been sick of being love-sick?
listening to songs over and over that just add to your illness?
and all you wish is to be in a place
where you, yourself, are not being used over and over again
by those you just wish would return a speck of the admiration
that you seem to be gushing from the tips of your heartstrings?
Maybe you should leave.
Leave this place, and go to a far-off locale,
where you can start over, and not have to be reminded
day after day after day after day
of everything you've done wrong.
A magical place that exists far enough to understand
that you're not running away from those you can't stand to be around
but that you're running away from yourself.
You're (I'm) not a bad person,
I'm (You're) just a horribly selfish one.
You (I) just want to be loved,
and have someone love you (me) in return.
Love in such a way that there's no confusion
no misunderstanding.
no one-sided angst that perpetuates
the insecure loneliness that takes you (me) over
when you're (we're) alone in bed
on those cold nights,
where the wind whips around your one-roomed soul.
The room that doesn't really have any room for anyone else.
I have room.
But there's no one to share that room with.
So, I walk around, over and over,
cleaning the closets of my heart,
looking through the items left behind by former lovers.
A shirt.
a pair of jeans.
a book.
a note.
a letter or two.
some music that I play on the piano,
over and over.
music I wrote for those who'll never hear it.
music that I still have memorized,
playing to an empty concert hall.
Empty seats filled with reminders,
of the failures that plauge.
Some say that being love-sick is just a social disease,
fate's hand holding you over life's cliff.
dangling, just waiting for that hand to let go
as you fall into the seemingly empty canyon,
but it's filled with all those others,
who died from their sickness.
sometimes I wish I would die from this love-sickness.
but with each twist of the knive,
we continue to live,
over and over.
desiring to love again.
to make things right for all of us.
