I am No Doctor of Your Soul
I don't see any end to this unexcited down pour of your so called tears of misery. For if I remember correctly you spoke of change. Yet here you are, hanging on the tail of my coat. Begging me to comfort your tender soul.
Knowing well of what my heart feels of you. What sickly ego you must bear, willing to reach to me in your time of need. Though this be a familiar need, with a familiar problem. A problem I cannot console even if you handed me the key.
No, I do not wish to ignore you, but it must be done. For your soul is not the only soul between us. Mine stretches with both arms. Expanding in the desire to be a part of yours. But I have grown to know this is a fools errand. It cannot be done, for your soul reaches to no one.
I now hear the fiddle that plays from the roof of your heart, and I hear the rhythm of the devil flows from it. I don't wish to condemn you to your misery, but it seems you are not exhausted of it. I fear it has become a religion of sorts.
You have taken up tradition to choose a companion of deceitful taste. Heeding no signs that tingle in the gut. Like one lost in a desert with no faith, you come to the feasting of bread and take to the illusion of kingdoms.
Only to see when the light returns, the damage at which you have caused. The carnage you once again toiled in. For the sake of filling the lonely void of your beating heart. Though I see the agony breaching the windows of your soul. I can spare no more love in the name of your torment.
I am not bitter, but I am no doctor of the soul. I deserve a river of my own and air to breathe. Call me what you will, but I will no longer be an echo you call to, when you need a voice.
Thank you for reading, have you had a love that was never returned, but always came to you when they were in need; never fully taking your heart into count?
Sorrowed stories in, A Man's Traveled Heart
Coming soon, The Bleeding of Words
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