lithedark

Trust and truth are fickle things
You give them room; they spread their wings
I always end up disappointed
All excuses, all disjointed

‘I never meant to lie to you’
Old words that ring yet sound so new
‘I didn’t mean to cause you hurt’
So stop these games and make it curt

There is no safety from your hell
That hurt me worse and made me dwell
‘Ere the lie you had my trust
But dealings now are swift and just

Fickle people in my life
Do much to aid my toil and strife
A game gets played with every heart
Before the world just falls apart

So dark, like the others, but with a ring of truth. To be fair, I don’t think anyone lied to me more than I lied to myself. Thanks for reading.

Love escapes my darkened soul
Coming with a stabbing toll
Causing pain but bringing life
Like a sharp and cleansing knife

Never would I bring her harm
Too blinded by your brilliant charm
Bind my wounds with tender care
Ever more will you be there

Telling words that bring delight
To ease my pain and hide your plight
Your lies that never cease to flow
Lay hidden in your radiant glow

A story that you hid from me
To prove your endless need to flee
From those you have that hold you close

I never finished this; I was tempted to finish it now, but I think I won’t. It is trite and uses the same vocabulary as the others. Seems like I have written the same poem a dozen times or more. Good old introspection. Thanks for reading.

A fire burns within my chest
The glowing cinders steal my rest
They twist my words and cause my hate
Unholy fires won’t abate

Young and carefree words may seem
Yet hidden ‘neath their oily sheen
A black snake lingers, dripping fangs
Their poison brings a stabbing pain

I never aim to please or joy
It’s just a cover for my ploy
I’m always after something clever
For ever dark is my endeavor

My life is like a ball of glass
Filled with nonsense, filled with crass
Its crystal texture shows no lines
The pristine surface gently shines

Sometimes the smoke may blind my eyes
My mind gives in to futile lies
The truths or falsities that rise
May someday be my own demise

They only serve to harm my cause
These lies, they only prove my flaws
They bring about a stealthy pause
While I sharpen up my claws

The tearing truth throws wide the door
No smoke to cloud it evermore
The silver ball that is my life
No longer blocked by hate and strife

This is the first poem I ever wrote; in retrospect it wasn’t very good (at all), but that’s the point of living: you suck less and less up until the very end. Thanks for reading.