Paper

What is left of a paper heart?

After all your cares have fallen apart.

How does it beat day after day?

Left lonely and forgotten there at halfway.

How do you mend a paper heart?

How do you find a beat that’s been lost?

The paper hearts of paper dreams,

Torn apart and left to bleed,

The dreams you had of better days,

Lying in pieces wasting away.

Wasting away into paper roses,

A paper rose for every lie and broken promise.

What becomes of paper petals?

After the burning ash has settled.

How does it beat, the paper hearts of paper doves?

So beautifully poisoned by human foxgloves.

Peeling burnt hands cover your face,

Wondering how long your heart’s been up in flames.

What happens when the flames die down?

Is it possible for a new love to be found?

One day it might know,

That paper heart that’s been turned to snow.

Until One Day decides to appear,

I’ll be sweeping away these paper tears.

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Suicidal Revival

 

Another breath leads to another day,

Another chance to end it in another way.

Day by day they haunt the streets,

Performing the day’s normality’s.

They face the world with practiced smiles,

While inside they’re miles away in their own desert isle.

But truth can’t hide in vacant eyes,

A barren landscape of untold lies.

When our day ends,

Their nightmare begins.

A once cotton haven so comforting and warm,

Has become a side-less coffin where lost souls mourn.

In the dusk and dark their fears reside,

Down covered fangs come to eat them alive.

Family and friends beg and plead,

“One more night, just hold on, please.”

They ask the everyday heroes constantly busy,

“Is there anyone out there who can save me?”

One more night one more day one more sun one more moon,

Begging the Savior of Sinners to end it soon.

They try and try to fake a lie,

Find a way to come alive.

They reach for the hand of the Chosen One,

Trying to cease what had already begun.

From the damned and the broken,

And the tried and the trodden,

Come voices the world has forgotten,

So fragile and broken,

Words scorned and stricken,

With wrists slit and souls shaken,

They’re taken in with one simple question,

From someone who cared enough to stay beside them,

In their self-made dungeon,

“My little slain souls lost in exile,

Once so bright and amazingly vital,

Will you come take my hand my suicidal revival?”