Tuesday, December 4, 2012

Your own bedlam

To cry yourself to sleep. A martyr to it or not, the thought of it makes you cringe. Saddens your heart to no end. But If you think that is the worst a wounded heart could endure, you're mistaken.

It's that formidable dream. That nightmare of love painted across lakes. That horrifying journey when you traversed across a long unending road, with the one you skedaddled from.

It's when you wake up in the morning, with tears in your eyes and love on your lips.

When you realize your own skin is foreign to.

When your heart no longer belongs to you. When it wants to break through the rib cage because the agony is too much to contain.

You shout curses at your heart, you peel at your skin, you carve hurt on your temple. This sorrow creeping all over your body.

Hoping it will end. You beg it to stop.

It's when morning brings no solace. And remorse is your companion.

It's when nothing is good enough and living is yet another burden to the soul.

Morning is nothing but your very own bedlam.

And at night when midnight strikes, you are taken back into the abyss of nostalgia, to mourn, snivel, into the pillow, before you fall into a deep slumber.

Only to be awakened by the nightmare of love.

And the morning... well.


  1. This was an Amazingly written Post! The words define those depths which are still not touched... Beautifully written!

  2. "It's when you wake up in the morning, with tears in your eyes and love on your lips."

    I hope it would be okay if I quoted you [with a link to your blog] in one of my posts.