I've written so many poems about lovers but it who was it I was speaking of? Nobody thinks to answer the question but they're always filled with answers. Maybe it wasn't who, but what. Does it matter?... I've said it too many times, I only find love's kiss at the ass end of the wizard's potion. SI.IS.GO.

Silence Is Golden. I'm just repeating myself these days. The message is still the fucking same. But the pain just reimburses its purse. The same fucking payment. "I only find joy in..." I find joy in nothing, just momentary passes of time that mitigate the pain for a minute.

Unecessary. Unneeded. Dead. I'd prefer it that way.

In this age of paranoia, it is so far to believe that the man in the corner is the one who accesses all hearts. It is so inconceivable that he was even capable of feeling, or that he would feel so deeply where none would be able to reach his, but his heart touches all. In this age of paranoia, It was spoken long ago that the love of many shall wax cold. And where lips should be full of milk and honey, we grovel and spill blood for dung and soil. Lo, I shed an ocean's worth of tears in agony for the temperament of my brothers. And yet evenstill, I am filled with a keen hope for what tomorrow may bring upon my blinded eyes. The flame of purity and goodwill still burns ever so brightly in the bosom of mankind.

Keep reminding yourself that you're Belphegor. Love between humans ain't nothing but a comedy reel as one or the other pretends to endlessly squeal in joy or pain. Laying claim upon a bed of nails that their hearts supposedly sail above a pastor's pasture. Sheep led to the slaughter, I'll assume the role as a bear consumed by the honey pot, never bothering to coddle those around me as my heart returns to stone. And as such... Welcome to my throne.

Melancholy, morose, and lugubrious. You're curious to know why my sober thoughts only show face when I'm INTOXicated.

I guess I should be satisfied that you still haunt me in my absinthe dreams. But I'm starting to wonder if I'm only seeing your face at the bottom of the bottle.

Something like an eternity, I suppose.

11 years aside, I can't help confiding in you of the myriad of tears and fears that I've felt. I'm reminded of the times when that gaze of your eyes in these old stills tore my heart asunder, now I find solace in that haunting smile.

I was destined to be a shattered remnant of a time we were both supposed to forget, but I guess I was wrong...

I've taken plunges into the abyss, but I've never scratched the surface. Isn't this the thrill of a meaningless existence?