You are the disease that has brought this blackness to my organs.
A shadowy vale that now hangs over the haunted face of my well being.

What has writing about tragic love become, besides a spectacle for those who see it merely as a collection of well strung words and phrases, that benefit them through admiration of beauty, yet little else?
Does blindness possess those that know not of pain through use of literature?
Evidently so, as true as heartlessness seems to, also.
Yes indeed, every word carries nothing less than the very meaning of sincerity.
And yes, indeed, the subject matter is you.
So worry not, when you suggest that I should perhaps let it be known to them.
For I did.
And have.
Yet here I am.
Writing again, the perilless tales of the heart.

Behold the crushing truths of fatal attraction.
I know not why my heart yearns for you as it does, though that which I do know, is this;
You hold wondrousness in your appearance, as though you were the offspring of beauty itself.
And your mind is clearly as addicted to being fulfilled as I find mine to be.
I only wish that all that you are, wasn't all that I am not. For otherwise, you and I would be quite darling, I surmise.
But for what it is worth, please do not refrain from treating my eyes to a show of such unfathomable calibre and rarity.
As you are without question, the very essence of the word delectable.

Despite your attempts at subtlety, darling. I see precisely what you're thinking.
And if I could put lips to lips without harming another, I would do so in a matter of seconds.
I am, as mad as it seems, quite the admirer of your very existence. And once again, I know so little about you, but feel the facade is rather well rehearsed. Please understand, I am well practiced in the area of observation. And with such said, you are the universe, as I am the eye. Stunning to look at, yet so minimally explored.

How could this possibly be, that I find myself once again, tied mercilessly between want and need.
Little does it help that want is as flawless in features, as the day is long, yet need is as fitting as the very shoes of mine that they are so accustomed to walking in.
Want, you are my sin among sins. I crave all that is your beauty, yet helplessly fall by the way side, on my journey to your world.
Need, you are as evident as your name, though I am yet to ever take on board that which I honestly needed.
So let us raise our glasses to the man of the hour, who loathes to be alone, and hates to be accompanied.
The sound of solitude is the same as insanity.

19:07

With the untimely demise of that which once was, yet was never much understood. One moves to pastures green.
Though being among such diversity in wonderfulness, seems to be more harmful than it is desirable.
The bludgeoning desperation of prior actions from some, lead only to the frail attempts of regrowth in the area of passionate emotion, in one. Yet such an act of nature, becomes impeded by life's consistent intentions of bad will.
In time, though, embraced in the arms of the great healer, one may nurture ones Love, and perhaps create a much stronger ability to not only cope with, yet manage and dispense accordingly.
The cold side of the heart is reserved only for those who seldom admit to reality. And further more, ignore all ties with their wake of bitter destruction.

Darling, sweetest maiden that you are.
I am afraid to say that you have well and truly taken control of me.
Just to so much as gaze at the photo of you that I keep with me at all times, is enough to send my grounded sense of stability into an uncontrollable ethereal orbit.
I rest my head at night, longing for your lips to seal mine goodnight.
I wake to the tragic reality that your body beside mine was nothing more than a stab into the cruel darkness of vivid dreams.
There is nothing I want more at this moment in time, than for you to take my hand and walk at my side, so I may secure the knowledge that you are my lady, and I may show your almighty greatness to the world, as it looks on in awe.

Alpha Hotel.

What could possibly be more desirable than ones first kiss.
The desperately lustful last few seconds one must subject themselves to, before contact.
Before all manner of excellence is experienced.
Close your eyes, my darling.
And let us believe that we are anywhere other than here.

And I will kiss you 'till my lips are sore.
'Till my body begs no more, yet goes unheard by my mind.

So may I, darling, show you the greatest show that you will ever see?
Indeed, The world, as it performs for you & me.

24

With every waking second, it becomes increasingly clear that you are undeniably enchanting.
So mesmerizing indeed.
But I am not sure that I can physically cope with the reality of it all.
With the thought that as it stands, this moment, you and I are beyond even a scene that appears in the most fictional of subconscious worlds.
Alas, I shall maintain a subtle pursuit, testing the waters of eternal excellence with the heel of crushing acceptance.
But most magically of all, it is certainly not beyond you to figure out this infatuation entirely, thus producing a future forked road, but at least the basis of an option.
If only time were my alter ego.

28-05-09

Could it be, that love its very self, has begun to play the almighty roll of the illusionist?
For only yesterday did I catch a glimpse of you, merely a glimpse, yet, what to every other could only have been a matter of seconds, to me became hours on end, played out as though time was putting itself on pause.
And throughout these moments, born to me, was an image of utterly unmistakable grandeur at its all time diligent best.
But all is not as sweet as your appearance, it would seem.
For not only are you an utter mystery to me.
You are, it would seem, unbeknown to everyone else that I have taken to asking witness of.
Oh most punishing phantasmagoria, why must you subject me to these unbelievable scenes of beauty? For what was a moment to the eyes is an eternity to the mind, most certainly made harder by knowing of no truth at all concerning your existence.

Welcome to the depths of the uninspired.
The heightened mass of senselessness, and the outstanding area of ground that it covers.
Let us stand and observe the parade of the depressed, who in their own right, are blissfully unaware of their fates.
Who's lives have become so saturated, yet to them, they see it not.
The visionaries of yesterday are the blind men of today, still, they're worshiped for the fact that they continue to 'create'.
Thus continuing to sell nothingness to the ever growing crowds of the mindless. And, in the grand scheme of it all, controlling an army of the perpetually uneducated, leading mercilessly to the death of freedom of thought/speech/life as we (never) once knew it.

There a certain times throughout life, where words need not be spoken. For a singular image can, quite simply, explain it all.

08:04:09

Do my eyes deceive me?
Or could it possibly be that you are, without doubt, one of the most beautiful creations I have ever laid my eyes upon.
Despite the fact that I have known you for never, I feel as though knowing you is a must.
For your intellect excites me.
And your gaze is quite compelling.
Benched once again in the game of love.
But from the sidelines I can see, as clear as day, that you and I could make history my dear.

t.M II

I implore you to inform me of why it is, that every time you come within my eye sight I am instantly thrown into a mindless daze, a sense of ethereal surrealism.
Your beauty will be my death, if you continue to perform as you do.
And I know not of a human that could deny the allure of your disappearing act.
You will be the most intensely desired creation that I will ever have had the fortune of knowing.
And I would go as far as to say, my dear, that I love you.
Though I wish only to be able to express such feelings in any way other than words.
Perhaps, in time, such will happen.

XII

But what is love or lust, if that which is loved or acquired through lust, is merely a single sided battle to accomplish acceptance and to find solid evidence that equality is anything but just a word muttered within the dreams of failing romantics.

14:23

And with what courage does it take thee to express all manner of feelings portrayed through words so sweet as those thou have spoken.

For I long for clarity within these walls, within the boundaries thou has marked out through the incapability of providing evidence for the facts so consistently spoken.

With which, I sit upon my throne, pondering the notion that a liar is not just a keeper of truths but also a seeker of such, in disguise.

50.0.5.e

Day by day, I watch the coming and going of life in every form.
I am predetermined to observe the sights of everything that passes me by.
And with such influence, I relate, my current affairs to that which I see.
I see liars and cheats, facades and faux charisma.
Wishes unfulfilled, thus forgotten through ignorance.
Naivety glamorised as an acceptable frame of mind.
And the unwillingness to explore further than a zone that realistically, could not ever be referred to as comforting.
Then I see you, one among the millions, one who through so many, shines with a light so vivid it turns all other surroundings to the pits of darkness.
Such an attractive light, but so unclear it is as to why.
As appearances are so evidently deceiving, so might I say, is the human mind.
And I have spent so many hours on end, attempting to devise an explanation that regards why the image of you is more consistent in my mind than perhaps even the primitive instincts to sleep and eat.
I have thus far achieved not a single answer. And by the rules of both optimism and pessimism, I feel such might be the case for eternity.

You and I, my dear, you and I.
How tragic such situations have become.
How tragic indeed.
For I was merely a photograph, among a collection of millions.
Yet still, you found me.
But what use is being found when being fond is something you can't be.
Though it seems, to me, that I might just be your fondest.
I might just be all that you have dreamt of, that I might.
This chase, though, is most tragic of all.
And if my heart could be strung along another meter, its noose would hang from everything you fail to admit.

For these are the imprints of the first to bare witness.
The markings upon the virginal blanket of natural artistry.
So silently does the artist work, silently enough for one to only ever notice his finished masterpiece through curiosity of life outside ones reclusive four walls.
What genius graces ones eyes, what brilliance, what intricacy and intensity one instantly becomes acquainted with.
The irony of produce subject to negative temperature, that could warm even a dead mans heart, is enough fact to say that such magnificence should be embraced and adored with all of ones ability to do so.
Disregard all cliched connotations, for this is merely an appreciation in its simplest of forms.

Farewell past loves & mistakes alike.
The ticking clock is your greatest nemesis, and I sit firmly on his side.
What a view we have from here, the play back of every wasted breath,
So clear it might well have been just yesterday, though who is to say that it wasn't.
For I have lost track of a day to day pattern, not a structure exists to a week nor a month,
Nor has it for collected week and month periods.
I faintly envisage what then, I considered, memorable highlights, yet clearly now, are more suited to 'just another day'.
Another torn up attempted master piece, added to the ever growing collection of that which I once wasn't.
So in these last moments of life, amid the toll song of the bells and frozen air upon my face,
I bid:
Farewell past loves & mistakes alike.