|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
Cave InThis pain is a cave in,
You try to run,
Escape before it catches up to you.
You dodge the falling stone,
The insults and blows,
But sooner or later,
You can not dodge them all.
It suffocates you,
Turns you numb.
You stop running,
You stop caring that you're no longer running,
No longer fighting to survive.
You are helpless to stop the debris from landing on you,
Wounding and scarring you.
You think to yourself,
What is the point of running,
Only to be hit by something else when you think you've escaped.
To run into another corner,
Another mirage smiling as an exit.
So you lay there,
The pain tears you apart,
And you think to yourself,
When you're running dead.
If you have enough strength,
You will scream for help and hope people hear,
But you do not expect them to come and pull you out.
Even if that's all you want, all you need,
Is for someone to pull you out of the cave and heal your wounds,
You do not expect them to help.
You are waiting to be found,
But you are living dead.
Love Story The wind whips around my body, tearing at my clothes, trying to hurdle me over and hold me back at the same time, wiping my tears from my face, carrying them away. I'm soaked, my clothes and my hair drenched in rain, making me feel heavier then I already do, tempting me to let gravity take me down to the hard ground below. It's like the classic story, standing at the edge of the roof, staring at the cement and the people going about their buisness so far beneath, not caring to look up and see me standing on the edge. Just like every story, the clouds are dark and low, the rain is falling from the sky, the wind blows up here so high, and I feel like no one cares.
All I ever feel is pain, I spend every day alone, just going through the motions, I don't even know what I'm living for anymore. So I stand here. Everything in me wanting to end it, the pain and loneliness. Well, almost everything, a small part of me is
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
Keep in Touch!