This Room II: Soul of Glass

 

This Room II: Soul of Glass

by Brandon J. Perkins

 

Cobweb covered record player

scratching out its ethereal song

the music or life, of death.

 

My mind sits proudly on the throne of pain,

trying not to shudder under the weight.

 

The world melts away before my eyes can comprehend its loss.

 

 

When i was young, i knew of innocence,

The ultimate purity.

But time beat it away

and i was left with a soul of glass

that fell to new depths.

 

All that's left is the shattered pain i hold in my hands.

All I can do is writhe in the clutches of unknowing sadness,

 

you innocently made my world

and innocently tore it apart

 

I wish I could touch you

but I don't want to soil you

with the blood on my hands.

 

The storm within my soul explodes outward within itself,

and I display a plastic smile, as I scream to obliviousness and back again.

 

Don't turn your face away.

It's all that's keeping me from drowning.

 

If screams could wither away my soul,

I would be in Hell.

I am shackled to my fate, a puppet of meaningless sadness,

Unneeded pain.

 

Cries of rage slither into tormented oil, a fuel for my eyes.

When the decay of everything creeps upon me, I see myself.

Sometimes I see beauty, and wish I could pretend that it was only skin deep,

 

long enough to melt into one,

and find a temporary release from the weight of this world.

 

But I have resigned myself to another fate

the fate of ever seeking love.

though I may never find what i'm looking for.

 

I cannot lose myself in meaninglessness

the search for love is something I do to find myself.

 

But as I swallow myself in questions I wonder

what is it i'm looking for?

 

I guess it doesn't really matter.

I'm falling down

and when I look back, I can't even see from where I came.

 

I'm so ashamed.

The breaking of my truth

has robbed me of my lies.

 

There is an old, dusty book in This Room,

sitting on a shelf, in a dark corner.

 

The book speaks of Death.

I never touched it,

I never even tried.

It scares me to think that if I were to die,

everything I know would be unfinished.

 

I wish I could read the book,

never fearing, never shying away.

 

But it collects dust in the corner.

I want to throw it away.

 

The darkness passes over,

and the porcelain of life begins to bloom again.

 

I struggle against the cruelty of everything I cannot be,

a pillar of marble in a raging sea.

 

Despite my weakness on the inside,

I will always be strong on the outside,

 

and I will always be there for you, if you need something to cling to,

 

as shelter from the storm.