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Hand In HandHand in hand
We walk alone
To a place, our home sweet home
He looks to me, with a smile
I can't help feeling it's been awhile
In the clearing in the woods, I think to myself, it can't be this good
Something feels right, something feels wrong,
Being together it's been so long
The way he smiles it cuts me deep, it's something that I want to keep
Something isn't right though, from what his blue eyes show,
The sky is black, he disappears,
I cry out, eyes burned with tears
They flood the rivers, and the streams,
I rise in bed with a hollow scream
My cheeks are streaked, my hands in fists
All along it was him I missed, but something inside me
Way down deep,
Wants it, needs it, to not be a dream.
Splashing Red on My Canvas of WhiteSilver shining in the light
Pressed to flesh
So wrong, yet so right
My mental reasoning as clear as mud
Razor glinting, sharp and precise
My bad comfort in the darkest nights
Blood and tears, hollow cries
Don't reach their ears
The pain makes me high, ready to fly
Want it, need it, when I cry
No one knows when I'm alone,
Splashing red on my canvas of white
The thrill-full bite,
The sting, the chill, my arm to warm
With flowing blood
Let my pain be heard.
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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