born to blade;raised to FLY
20060520
inexplicable things
how can it be that the things that are deemed to matter the most matter the least? and how is it possible that there are things no words can paint,no mind but their person's can conceive?
it seems that there are certain situations where what is right to someone can feel so wrong,yet be right again in relation to another.situations when the heart should not be breaking yet already lies broken,times when even the closest of hearts cannot possibly fathom the complications that have arisen in the heart of an innocent being he loves as his sister.her pain he can listen to,but her pain he cannot agree with or feel -- the pain that cannot be comprehended.
or the happiness one can wish to another,even when the heart has been squeezed to drought of any source of happiness.this too the happy soul can thrive on,but it is this very wish of happiness that kills the wisher further.a brutal stab to a heart long dead,long denied the blood of love which keeps it full.
this suffering only the wearer of the soul can suffer,this helplessness only the keeper of the mind can smother in.when a beautiful smile hides the rotten emotions that dwell beneath,a twinkling eye that shies away from knowing gazes that know the twinkle is but a tear.
the mind moves along from one thought to another.a running film of imagination and illusion,faded memories and exposed weaknesses.a life of shame concealed within a head,a head that is lifted high to oppose a life so low.it is this mind that knows what is to be done,yet it is also this mind that poses barrier to the intuitions of the heart.the mind hears the right things being done and rejoices,the selfish heart rebukes such folly and makes its person stupid with false hope.
the heart is supposed to be of the mind,yet in crises it cannot be controlled.in the wise eyes of the girl she has already lost the battle,but in her bitter heart she has yet to lose the war.one part of her retreats to mend in sorrow,the other remains to be dealt the final blow.
there may be no more wind above the ocean..but the butterfly has yet to die.the wind is hers to float in,the wind is hers to kiss.the wind has flown away from the grasp of the waves below,the waters which now hesitate to pull it back into their desperate arms.
you are like water,sometimes like the wind;the more i try to hold onto,the less i get. ¶ 1:42 AM 0 comments
it seems that there are certain situations where what is right to someone can feel so wrong,yet be right again in relation to another.situations when the heart should not be breaking yet already lies broken,times when even the closest of hearts cannot possibly fathom the complications that have arisen in the heart of an innocent being he loves as his sister.her pain he can listen to,but her pain he cannot agree with or feel -- the pain that cannot be comprehended.
or the happiness one can wish to another,even when the heart has been squeezed to drought of any source of happiness.this too the happy soul can thrive on,but it is this very wish of happiness that kills the wisher further.a brutal stab to a heart long dead,long denied the blood of love which keeps it full.
this suffering only the wearer of the soul can suffer,this helplessness only the keeper of the mind can smother in.when a beautiful smile hides the rotten emotions that dwell beneath,a twinkling eye that shies away from knowing gazes that know the twinkle is but a tear.
the mind moves along from one thought to another.a running film of imagination and illusion,faded memories and exposed weaknesses.a life of shame concealed within a head,a head that is lifted high to oppose a life so low.it is this mind that knows what is to be done,yet it is also this mind that poses barrier to the intuitions of the heart.the mind hears the right things being done and rejoices,the selfish heart rebukes such folly and makes its person stupid with false hope.
the heart is supposed to be of the mind,yet in crises it cannot be controlled.in the wise eyes of the girl she has already lost the battle,but in her bitter heart she has yet to lose the war.one part of her retreats to mend in sorrow,the other remains to be dealt the final blow.
there may be no more wind above the ocean..but the butterfly has yet to die.the wind is hers to float in,the wind is hers to kiss.the wind has flown away from the grasp of the waves below,the waters which now hesitate to pull it back into their desperate arms.
you are like water,sometimes like the wind;the more i try to hold onto,the less i get. ¶ 1:42 AM 0 comments
