Wednesday, February 10, 2010

The hunted

Fickle friend, disguised in sheeps clothing, how sweet the idea of you.
A friend, the basis of reality outside my head. Here and now I stand next to you, attached to the idea of you, the idea of being accepted, loved, wanted. Here you are, so many faces, you embody so many souls and so many ideas I once had. Years ago, hopes that died with each one of you. More time wasted, more doses of reality.

I never learn, I keep searching . I hate myself more each time I fail to see the repetition in your moves.

Fickle friend, when will you see beyond your wants, your less than wholesome desires. We are all animals, we share only the likeness of human beings. We hunt for the things we need. We take to survive, we tear flesh from bone and soul from body.

Its tiring isnt it, hunting and being hunted, tearing and being torn. One day I hope that you too will become someones prey, dashing frantically when its already too late. Your hope is gone, ravaged by the one who took without asking. Its true you never find out what you have till its gone, and my belief in love is such as this, hanging precariously from your mouth.

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