An account of mellow hurt by Ropa.

An account of mellow hurt by Ropa.


What's the use to flinch at a knife if you've been stabbed for as long as you can breathe?

What's the use in acting hurt and in pain, when you're used to the feeling. 

I swore never to write about her. So I won't. 

I'll just write about how the sun became the moon then became Pluto. 

Hurling from in an elliptical orbit. 

With astroids close to it's size. 

I think that's the end of the poem. 

Here's a short paragraph account of my sufferings. I have failed to find meaning in love. I know the meaning of life. But what is it if love isn't abundant? I read a book about a man who cared for no-one, for nothing and lacked feeling. Psychopath in essence, but where i saw a psychopath, i look in the mirror and slowly begin to see myself. For life is a losing game. If I'm not to love, which i do believe is my purpose on this earth, if I'm not to love. What must i do? So late at night i wonder the streets of this solemn place. Dropping pins with every step i take. I do this to let the spirits that hover in silence that there be another. So we band like brothers without purpose. We drink like the Irish, only to sober up like the Zimbabwean i am. Eating healthy all day, gym during the evening. Allowing my liver to rest before i dip it in the nectar that soothes pain all night. We bicker amongst ourselves, asking questions like, what is the most painful thing you've experienced. I believe loving someone who doesn't love you back is chief amongst the mongers of pain, but we tell of stories of war. Loosing limbs, trying to equate the pain of flesh to the unhealing merchant that rages within. 

How i wish my life could show me who I'm to love, I'm certain i know how to now. Experience is the best tutor. I've sat with her all my life, and she laughs at all my mistake. Forgive me when i turn cynic. For there is nothing to love, nothing to love. How i wish i hugged trees for a living. But I don't. I sit at my desk, sketching plans of mansions big enough to be built in my hollow chest. Scribbling wonderlands into existence. For my heart left my chest, and now a world can fit perfectly. Like the Dutchman's captain. It's locked up in some box, waiting for whoever is willing to love a man so broken, her love becomes a key. 

They told me never to wear my heart on my sleeve, for everyone else moves with barbed wires on theirs.