The sentimentalist, the romantic, the poet
They are all dead, they wandered into streams, their pockets laden with smooth stones
They leapt in front of the locomotive, they stood atop the tallest building,
Waiting for someone to cry out from below
In the silence, in that brief moment of clarity as they stepped towards the edge,
They felt more alive than they ever had and grimly smiled to themselves
As the irony drizzled over their pallet and the pavement rose up to meet them

For this is not their world
This is no place for open hearts or well chosen words
This is a land of the bold, brazen and arrogant
Deceit is a way of life and the others wear the mask so well
Yet it falls from my face, exposing a soft smile and kind eyes
ripe and ready for the other’s knives

So I’ll remain here, clinging to the gaps in the concrete
On all fours, with my fingers bloody and raw, forced in
And gripping to the only solid thing that I know
As she stands over me and whispers in that sickly sweet tone
Words which have never comforted any man, drenched in sugar as they may be

I’m by the river, collecting pebbles and looking down as it trickles past
Without moving my lips I scream a silent tribute to the ones who went before
As another brick breaks across my back and my skin shatters
Twist the knife, I’ll grab the hilt of this metaphor and look into your opalescent eyes as my heart ruptures

Wash your hands in this river as I drift along


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