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Date Posted: 15:02:49 11/13/01 Tue
Author: Porthos
Subject: Broken (Not poetry exactly)

Enter a lonely and broken man. His clothes, old friends dirty and torn, hang from his quivering form. His face, too tired for expression, reflects the blank disgust that permeates his core. He puts his hands over his face; droplets of his agony creep through his fingers and fall to the frozen earth. Thoughts pound so fierce through his brain that they become audible. “Where is my heart? Where is my fucking heart?” The unclean spirit enters. A knife emerges, a calculating piece of steel. His fist clenches it, fearless and detached. The silver edge penetrates him and journeys up his arm, leaving a trail of crimson. Rivers form and come together, making pools that ripple and sing ghastly songs. The man’s eyes close. A sea is forming beneath him, red and beautiful. He thinks back to another time. Days when a cool breeze was enough to fill him, when a child’s smile could make him feel alive.
A soft breeze sent her golden hair into a wonderful dance. Her face was warm and alive: blue eyes that exuded innocence and jubilation, a little nose always red from the cold, a perfect smile like sunshine. She laughed and her eyes sparkled with mischief as she tackled him in the leaves, freshly fallen. He smiled big, completely in love. They lay there gazing at the autumn sky, content to argue over cloud shapes. This was living.
Where had he gone wrong? This thought echoed painfully through his mind. How did he go from every romantics dream to this shit? Fucking complacency. He had let his life happen to him. Content to slide by.
“I know, dammit!” he regretted saying this as soon as his lungs emptied of air; “I’m sorry” He was sorry. Her voice traveling from a hundred miles via a wire was terrified. A plastic knife drew blood on the eighth slice. Distraction, keeping him from screaming his fucking head off at her. He didn’t know why. She had done nothing but love him, but for some reason he was fed up. Not with her. He loved her. Every time he was with her it felt like home. Fed up with life maybe. Fed up with his choice to be lazy and distant. This somehow always seemed to burst forth from his vile insides when he was on the phone with her.
“I can’t do this anymore”, her voice was cold and emotionless, “I’m done with this, no more.” He knew this was coming. Dreaded it. Every time he had let his damned self disgust out on her, he knew he was that much closer to the end. He hung on the dead line, clinging to the remnants of her voice. This was the first time he forgot where his heart was.
It went down hill from there, plummeted in fact. The events between then and present were a haze driven by alcohol and various assorted narcotics. Somewhere amidst the self-medication he stopped caring. And somewhere he got the idea he would like to die.
He walked alone out of the city, snow falling around him like ash from a great fire.

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