For the January WCC. I went through several different ideas, thoughts, etc. did planning, yet this is what comes out of my head. Something totally different.
I guess I can deal with that, I usually don't understand my stories myself.
Monday, Jan. 4, 2010
Not hearing but feeling,
She smiles as she watches him,
The glow on her indistinguishable,
It lights and burns inside the room, with fuel.
And there he is, eyes closed; he's not here anymore,
His hands work, flicking and strumming along,
And in everyone's mind; he lights a match,
Lets it burns and shares it with the world.
She's near tears,
Overdone with emotion,
Graced with the unlikely gift,
Of one who love's him, and more,
The music he makes; wishing she could.
The words she could never hear, the song, silent.
She feels it though, and see's his joy, his pride,
He lives in it, constantly, as if it's air to him,
To her, sending his love and loyalty,
With every flicker and word,
Every pounding rhythm.
He opens his eyes,
Looks at her and smiles,
The music even and smooth,
Before he ends the last strums,
Puts down the guitar, goes offstage,
In a flurry of applause; from a lively audience.
The night will end, in his personal success,
And her heart growing for him, for love;
She'd like to believe it, he knows,
That all the songs are for her,
Where none of them are.
Every word, each chord,
He's dedicated for himself,
An acoustic melody of songs,
Written by and for him, who knew?
And when she found out, that he wasn't
Loyal, just lying; or caring, just pretending.
She realized the love she felt, was for him, not her,
Saw the way he never cared, was never honest.
Deception sank her heart, into the dark,
And betrayal bubbled inside of her.
Cryptic, well chosen words,
Written on paper everyday,
Just lies, only for her.
In one quick moment,
She'd loved him, but now,
Her heart shrank; shrill and cold.
In her mind, a million thoughts,
White butterflies flew,
like angels of death,
And in her mind,
She could choose for herself.
They found him early one morning,
Body strewn across the road,
A small silver car nearby,
His blood on it, window broken.
Just one hit it was. But another thing.
His guitar, broken, scattered around him,
The scene covered in gasoline.
Nothing was burned.