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This is how i feel now youre gone

Poetry By: gallygirl18

this is how i feel now hes gone

ignore state of punctuation and paragraphing just did on iphone

Submitted:Dec 5, 2012    Reads: 17    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   

I sit, unmoving. The thought of you is a razor - sharp silver stainless steel blade that loves to puncture a victim. Its smile the way its serrated edge grins, laughs without feeling; oblivious to the pain it causes, so, there it can live, an object unknowing of what emotion is - of what it means to cry to weep, scream or even can I say it?... love. Or is it a blunt tool in my heart? Yes. A grotesque hideously blunt instrument that is pushed to the back of the shelf and it sits, waiting patiently knowing it will get its turn. Watching silently, expectancy hangs in the air. The knife is chosen, and used and put back and it would mock the tool with its worn down edge were it to fathom that emotion. But one day the blunt tool gets its chance. It can choose its venture and it does and it works its way into a broken heart - the pumping vessel taken by surprise and blood tries not to run cold. Twisting its way in unlike the knife that propels itself, avant-garde it launches its entity in but the blow doesn't last. This is the difference. The blunt tool can worm its way, seep in and reside there, pulling that heart apart ripping through every human vein that wired factory. The recipient is numb. The blow hits, albeit slow. But nevertheless it hits. The person stands. The tool in the back of the body. It takes a sly hit, goes in from the back takes the person by surprise and it has the upper hand. And once it starts it cannot stop. The body falls to the ground. Like a banshee in distress - the first sound that is uttered from the lips of the wounded. Hollow caws, a croak, a harsh cry of no is echoed so loud that it is silent and inconceivable. The tool is the mere instrument - it doesn't know what it's done, it doesn't know what it's doing. Like the knife it tries to break free, it's done its deed - but it can't. It's stuck. And a part of it doesn't want to stop. The creature on the floor, its face is twisted up, arms trying to flail but they can't because of the emotion that racks their body. Absolute torture is what is felt, beyond pain and into the silent graveyard where the pain turns cold, silent and freezes up. A place where air something so free and essential to living is a thick foggy repulsive gas that clogs the lungs and burns the eyes and seeps into the pore of the flesh and tears the body apart. A place where the ground something that supports you when you walk, catches you when you fall is a gaping black hole an empty space that allows you to tumble, far, far far down and when it eventually catches you it is a bed of decaying thorns that pierce the flesh and then let the disease in and it envelops your existence. A place where the sound of silence is so crystal clear that it's a high frequency note that rides higher and higher and higher and is mute to the ear but the unnaturlity of the sound snaps the ear drum and carries on inside and screeches in your mind, clawing at you. A place feared by any existence. That is what is felt by the breaking heart of the recipient. It begs for release but tool cannot, will not stop. And it starts to feel. A chink of a glass sounds and it's open to feeling. It starts to laugh, unsure of what it means at first and it starts to mock the pain the crying of the distressed mammal like a lion drawing out the agony of its prey by ripping off each limb. And it carries on like this for a while. Before things start to change, its starts to feel quietly inside its emotional beginning a hatred so raw and hot it's unbearable. It starts to grow and grow and multiply and multiply and it is the only emotion it knows. It starts to understand the suffering its caused the recipient through its own lonely sad experience and the fact it's enjoying doing this to another entity, the sadistic pain it's caused has triggered a switch that was not there at the start of time but now it snatches and envelops the tool and in its infantile state of learning, like a child, its first emotion is a bitter twisted hate a hate that is so indescribable, so easily capable of hurting something so deep, it fathoms it and fathoms what it is doing, and with that fathom the tool shatters beyond repair and it is destroyed forever; and silently it rests in the heart of the graveyard.


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