I'm holding together with paperclips and staples,
Each time a new wound opens, I clip it closed and swallow the agony,
At the bottom of a bottle, I find answers that a sober mind ignores,
I'm miserable.
My lips are the easel where I paint smiles, and the critics observe a rainbow,
But everyone knows that there are no rainbows without rain, and inside my head is a torrential downpour,
Thoughts and fantasies coated in sunshine and a spectrum of colour glides on through.
Pain looks tolerable when disguised as works of art.
I am a canvas layered with scrawled out attempted sketches of a perfect life,
Once blank, but now ruined by endless mistakes,
Swirls of broken promises twisted with lies resembling words that warm the soul,
Sharp striking cuts and faded erased lines on worn paper where errors resemble a broken heart,
I am a masterpiece of the careless who wear deceit as badges of honour.
My thoughts are bound in leather and splashed on pages, syllables, and sounds unspoken,
But felt with fingertips too sensitive to touch the edges of each page in fear of paper cuts,
The truth in print, outloud they are wrapped in razor blades and cut my tongue to ribbons.
Unrequited love mute and rusted in a tower like an unrung bell,
If it rings, the illusion will break, and it will crumble foundations of reason and restraint,
I will not break the silence that protects the one secret held within.
It is my religion, my faith, and my hope that can never be heard by its own God.
The ever divine will never know.
Sown into the fibres of my being are iridescent strands of morality,
Taut with temptations and fraying like over played strings.
No melodies ring true but slow and sluggish like a broken-down carousel.
Round and round we go.
I am clapped in irons with impregnable chains,
My voice is dead and has slipped away.
I'm forced to watch my dreams displayed before me in a silent movie where they come true but not for me.
A dream too far in the heavens, hands outstretched in silent prayer.
A longing for salvation and to feed the hunger that infects the heart.
Words entwined like vines creep under the skin and send my bones into a chill.
"You'll never be good enough for me, I will never choose someone like you."
No beauty like the rose, or skin like silk, no voice like symphonies or a body like aphrodite.
Not for anyone, not for me.
This is my hell and my neverending misery.
