If fear is joy of not being,
Why does have to be there,
A love of fear must come near;
Whereas joy can and will compare.
What is the vanity of my own pain,
When does my sacrificial suffering does end,
Then how is this possible,
it is when I need to give happiness a chance
to make my life worthwhile and at least,
be its own answer.
My dear, my dear, my dear.
Leave me with not your number.
Leave me with not a face.
Leave me with not even a single word
. . . nor a song.
. . . nor a weep.
let me sleep in my own tears.
Then come to me,
as never before.
only to suck and empty those two spheres that can shatter my innards.
then only leaving me wanting not of your lust of my mind.
only to which not to love me,
give me a monster defined.
Let my fire,
be my own desire.
See to it,
I will nurture it and give it shelter and will be its vessel.
I and it will be its own muse.
Complete me a cycle of the love of an object that which cannot be held.
Thus a past of life that never gets past me and never confronts what is in front of me.
Silly memories that pest me in my current thoughts that I need to give a huge rock,
and swat them and i will enjoy see those thoughts roll onto that rock back to the
front of my feet again and again.
I am lost in my own R.A.M
I have lost all of my I/O
I, me, mine was wiped out.
I am to reconfigure, reassess, and evaluate what my hard drive can store.
I dunno. . .
then only when I will see what was history of my own sin,
not to backup every memory wipe that I was doing all along.