We are cursed to live alone.
Separate, cold, untouched.
Locked within our hearts.
Unable to reach out and show true feeling.
Spoken forth or spilled upon the page,
our dreams crystallise and become hollow.
Lost is the emotion behind them.
Forgotten, the dreaming half-formed thoughts that brought them forth.
They lie blockish, sterile and deformed.
Dead things that once weheld within us and gave life to.
But in this stale corrupted medium we try to cry out to others.
To let them know of us, that we exist.
That we too are locked away inside.
Like some sick contorted semaphore.
Useless, dead and cold these things cause more pain than relief.
We fight for them, we die for them.
For they are all we have.
And they are better than the silence.
We flail with imagined fists against the walls within us.
We scream out, and cry to those we see.
Hear us, know the depths of uor feeling.
Not in a dead language but the living thoughts of the mind.
And should our cries be heard, should two lost souls break the boundary and cross the cursed barriers of flesh and bone.
All others stop their cries for a few brief moments and look upon this blessed pair.
Look upon the one thing all of us cry out for, look upon it and strive to find it for ourselves.
this wonderous thing called love.
By Gothicus Freakyus.