| [wasted] it is� not for rapture not for pleasure not for bliss it�s only a means to lose himself in the murky disorienting chaos� and hope he�ll never find himself again. substance� make his senses dull make his vision blur and hopefully he�ll forget who he is and pass out on the floor, falling into a dark deep dreamless sleep. drink the libation� alcohol lets him escape lets him forget numbs the pain of memories. down� more more more his life is wasted and so is he. passing a mirror on his way out the door a glimpse of something is caught� his reflection. liquid pools of dark green stare into his� and exact copy revealing hatred malice and the overwhelming truth that he�s been hiding from himself for so long. the green orbs stare at him� so coldly. they are empty. they are void. they are dead. shatter� a fist immolates an image better off left forgotten. a perpetual nightmare in the form of the crystalline broken pieces of his reflection. blood� flowing freely from his injured hand. mingling with the glass shards. staining his clothes. irony� while hurting others he�s only ended up ruining himself and the broken pieces of his life are left behind as he walks outside into the dark alley� out into the rain where he runs through the puddles, fiery hair disheveled, and emerald eyes frightened he�s running from himself. and water mingles with the crimson blood on his hand� let it wash away as if it would also wash away the pain echoes of his thoughts are left in the puddle, whispering screaming: i hate what i�ve become. --Emerald Eyes 06.03.01. This was inspired by the Stabbing Westward song, �Wasted.� They really aren�t anything alike, but I guess if you listen to the lyrics and then read my poem you can see some similarities between the two. ^_^ |