My Blood on His Fist (Very angsty and based on true feelings).
Stabbed with an icicle to tare me apart,
Fire held in my chest-flames at his wrist,
Lava and ice combine to torment my heart,
He can’t even see my blood on his fist.
I’ll sense his glow then drift along past,
Picking up courage for the next guilty glance,
Look into his eyes then away again fast,
My heart in its cage, my head in a trance.
Longing to touch the pale of his cheek,
Being kept back by human taboo,
Loathing the shadow grabbing his feet,
For it sees him more often than I do.
A throbbing poisonous echo in my hollow soul,
Causing a pulsing, burning, unquenchable ache,
Always there, playing its scorching and seething role,
Feel like im dying, how much more must I take?
Trapped within a barrier of winters chill,
Tied down by rasping ropes, can’t be cut loose,
Stuck here expecting my death, his kill,
Unless his autumn-eyes should offer a truce.
Sometimes I think it will make me insane,
He’s out of my league and has a girlfriend,
It hurts to see him but I long to be near him again,
It’s been so long but I’ll not quit till the end.
Wishing, hoping longing to live,
Holding hot coal, flames rasping my wrist,
Knife in the heart, which was all I could give,
He can’t even see my blood on his fist.