The words you spoke

Were

Quiet and

Choppy.

Hushed,

Nervous,

And to

The

Point.

The words you wrote

Were

Poetic, excessive, captivating.

The words you wrote for me

Were alive, living, breathing entities.

Always something new,

sustaining itself.

Every sentence was sharp,

Pinpointing their way into

My heart, which I thought was yours.

And soon,

Your words were more

Than words to me.

And my breath picked up

And my smile returned

And then

You spoke.

And all

Was quiet

Again.

It might be the lack 

of strength 

or the 

way their shoulders 

slump

against 

walls we cannot see

or maybe

it's just

the faces their eyes 

make 

when you're 

not looking at them

or him

or her

or is it their saviors

that we 

cannot see

but how can they?

Maybe it

is us,

we are the fools. 

Bravery skips a generation;

mine, to be exact.

I hide under blankets,

in fear of storms.

I lock my doors, 

shut my windows,

and still panic. 

I want to be strong,

I want my father to

breathe again.

But you see,

I couldn't see his face again.

Not without crawling 

back into my den

of self-loathing

and pity.

I want to run,

they tell me no.

They sit me down in their seats,

and make me

and my friends,

run their government.

We don't start wars,

we want peace.

We give the people what they want,

in fear of being disliked.

I wear my mask of bravery,

just like the generation before me.

It's not my fault that I like to run. 

Well, I guess it is, since the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Just like my heart didn't fall far from my chest.

So I grabbed it and put it back,

Before anybody could see me bleed. 

You see, mister, I never tried to be the thing I am. 

But the man in my head tells me what to be.

I confess, I am a mercenary, an iconoclast. 

Whatever I may be, it is fire in my legs,

and ice in my arms. 

The rest of me? 

It's a war,

Head against heart. 

But there will be no winner. 

For I am headlong, and heart-strong.

My habits include writing on walls,

My friends don't like it,

You see, it's my downfall.

Because I lose myself once in a while,

To silent madness and luminary smiles. And I can't stop breathing,

I tried.

And I can't stop trying,

I'll die.

But what they don't get,

I'm different from the rest,

Instead of the same,

Trapped in life's game:

Of life, of death, length of breath.

Not love or trust, just gold and pain.

It's not about what you gain,

It's about what you give,

And if you don't give it your all,

You'll end up like me,

Writing on walls.

I may not have dignity, 

but boy, do I have virtues. 

No integrity, no purity.

Nothing safe, nothing stable.

My virtues fly high,

my virtues crash down.

Morality has no chance,

Not around me.

My virtues are the ones,

with no self-respect.

And I have no idea,

what a virtue is. 

She was an immune system,

despite that being the cause of death.

Always fighting,

but sickening you in the process. 

It wasn't her fault though,

something different every time.

Soon enough, 

she built up immunity her foes.

And maybe,

just maybe,

immunity wasn't for her.