Tragic farce of a tragedy

Some days, when I've lost my way and stumbled back into my past I come across your face. The passing, faded memory of a smile that was never truly aimed at me.

Some days, when I've lost my way and stumbled back into my past I come across your face. The passing, faded memory of a smile that was never truly aimed at me.

Some days when I've lost my way and stumbled back into my past I come across your face. The passing, faded memory of a smile that was never truly aimed at me.

Some days I lose myself to those memories that never were. I swear I could have bitten off my tongue if I knew "hello" would cause such pain so many years removed. 

Some days I trap myself in a corner of my own design reliving conversations whose dialogues never conversed. I would scream at the sky if I didn't already know that silence would be its answer.

Some days I wish, and I rarely ever wish, but on the days I do, I wish heartily and earnestly, I wish with all that a wish could be wished with. I wish that I could lose myself to a dream that ensured an honest embrace. A dream that would give me an earned kiss, something soft and simple, something worth locking away in a vault of cherished moments never to be forgotten.

How naive and foolish and stupid and childish and moronic and ghastly and pathetic and immature and and and and and...... painful, painful, painful, painful, painful.

Your name is my eternal nightmare. Your face is my unknown fear.

Your final words of distain I have saved, never to be forgotten, like the memory of a kiss that never was.

How I wish, and rarely do I wish...

But how I wish I could scream your name with meaning and see your face for true.

Ripping out my heart with my own hands would be an easier and more enjoyable task.

For Death... Death is an end... Death is the final chapter... Death cannot haunt because Ghosts only haunt the living.

Some days, when I've lost my way and stumbled back into my past I come across your face. The passing, faded memory of a smile that was never truly aimed at me.

This tragedy is beautiful in how tragic it is written, though its author is hideous and his pain a farce. This tragedy is nonetheless beautiful in how tragic it is written.

Reviews

[R.Inc$]

At 6 in the morning, the mind is hard too fight fair against. Sometimes you have to let the past come to the present in order to rid yourself of what haunts you.
Better yet, you have to understand that you are beyond the haunting and beyond ever being haunted again.