You bleed and cry and plead for me to let down my defenses,
To open the gates of my glorious Eden,
But when I lower those ever lovely florescent pink walls,
You come rushing in; a tsunami of discontent,
And ask me, with insatiable desperation, “why would you present such disgustingly false creatures to us?
We are tired and hungry for sincerity, and this is what you have offered?”
A martyr to the destruction of my dignity, angry waves of disillusion envelope me,
I am no more than a passenger, a slave, to your will,
To be bent and twisted into something resembling you,
And I cannot help but to think,
Is your love no more than a tepid gift in exchange for your broken hearts,
Scattered to the wind upon the fractured ground?
As the floor below your feet shakes with your tears, you solemnly offer me pity,
like a dagger to a withered traveler;
And as I dip into my ever growing pool of universal hesitance,
You walk slowly, over the broken bricks, over your broken hearts,
And our world is still.