Dedicated to everyone who doesn't realize they're giving up self-respect for a meaningless chase.

You sought a shallow quest, a number in exchange for your lust
Of what is out of reach, and now to suffer you must
Pay the price of what was once and will never be again.
Are you truly at fault or was it the tragic curse of men--
To change a woman, crush the flower that she was before?
No... the more solemn truth IS your make-up, the tellings of a whore.

And that, I say, is only good for this and this alone:
Not to tease, not to please, not to "have known,"
But only to look upon and wish you were not her.
What it calls love, in reality, is just a blur.

With everything in speed, in condition, in dispose, in control,
Hungry eyes surround her in her fishbowl.
She equally and openly "loves," in all disgrace of the word,
As it is thrown about across the street, where nothing is absurd.
The glass that she put up did nothing but imprison
Her in her own realm where all is to listen
To the plastic that spews from the blue of her lips.
But what if one night the bowl suddenly tips?

Life breaks.

The earth shakes.

Out come the Hounds.




Children die.

Grown men cry.

Fire goes the grounds.






Darkness.






Sadness.




Denial.





A while.






I once believed in being God's grace,
However I now believe I deserve a little more
Than to look mercifully into the face
Of a lonely, misleading whore.

Dedicated to everyone who don't realize they're giving up self-respect for a meaningless chase.