Broken--I fall out of this
Lonely paradise that you call love.
Nothing before me,
Nothing behind.
I only know the here,
and the now.
Facades tumble down--walls break away
As I continue this headfist plunge into..
reality.
Pain washes oevr me as I
watch
The scattered pieces of myself
fall
Onto humanity like tiny
raindrops.
The must be what it feels like being--
Broken.

Ink

It contorls us from the moment that we are born.
The moment that the paper announcing to the world who we are--
We are controlled.
Some of us are then called by the ink.
To weild it in one form or the other.
From there, the ink takes over.
We are bound by the ink's magic.
Doomed from the moment what we picked up that pen.
Ink--
By now it coarses through our veins
taking over like an infectious disease.
Until we succomb to its will.
Then the inks breathes free.
So is the life of an author.
Controlled by the ink.

[another note from tsukino -- I don't mind putting these up here. That's actually the purpose of having Etched on meh domain. I just ask that you don't take them without my previous knowledge and consent. I wrote these myself, they don't deserve to be taken. Domo arigatou!]