Long Island Ice Tea=bad plan

A random poem...I'm drunk and emo...deal:-P


The story teller sings a song
Speaking of a lover’s kiss.
Idealism in his eyes
He sings songs wrought by bliss.

I wonder if he’s ever experienced
The stabbing pain
Of a lover’s slight.

He carries on with his guitar,
Singing songs into the night.

I wonder if he notices the shadow
In the background.

I hide in the dark,
Allowing his words to seep
Into my subconscious.
I don’t believe a thing he says.

Love isn’t kind.
It isn’t worth everything
That the heroes have died for
In stories of old.

It’s cruel,
And painful
And bleak.
It hurts one to the core,
Turning a heart of gold
To that of lead.

He doesn’t know.

With the ending chord of his guitar,
I sigh as
My hand solemnly grasps at my breast.

I feel cold.

I knew then
That I’d turn myself inside out
Just to feel
My heart beat
Underneath this layer of ice
I call my soul.