[ This is my tale, ]

This is my tale,
Prose it is not, and
Barely poetry may it be called.
The words shall flow freely,
Without alteration.
It shall not be good,
But for once,
It's my turn to use poetry
In the manner all use it today
No satire or cynacism,
No hidden meanings,
Just a plain expression fo self,
That may be considered
Communicated so poorly,
When in fact. . .
It is thousands of times~
More acute and accurate
Than even the most eloquent
Inspiring, and beautiful
Piece I have ever written.
Crude as it is. . . .

Desiring to be
Like the one I saw
In text and torn writ
The desolat elittle boy.
I decided to be,
That wonderful little creature,
Beautiful in his sadness
And an enigma to draw~
The foolish to him.

Begging to be this monster
I froze my heart,
And forged my glacial home.
Not long after. . .
The world turned as it always does
The Gods cursing me, or mocking me
Or perhaps trying to be kind,
Only for me to waste their gift.

A name, a name, a name. . .
Dear Gods but it is a name
And a voice, and a personality
Truly a person, that haunts me.
The ghosted semblance of love,
My evanescence of truth.

One woman melted my land,
So effortlessly!
She took upon herself my words,
My truths, my lies, my pains, my pleasures.
She destroyed my abilities,
The things I built to protect myself,
And the sudden feeling
Or perhaps it was just~
Coincidental timing. . .
I failed, and fell, and broke.

All my love was hers, but my selfishness,
My foolishness. . . my mistakes.
Everything I did was wrong nearly,
And never should I be forgiven,
Though nightly I beg for just that.

Always saying that~
My love was eternal
We'd be together even,
After death parted us.
All things overcome,
All falsehoods outwitted,
We could do anything,
And be together indefinitely.

She protected me from. . .
All enmity.

Yet, all loves have their bounds,
So duely did her's reach its own.
Still, as her's subsided~
Mine grew exponentially
Through time I saw my errors,
My heart began to freeze again,
But instead, oh it did shatter!
All that keeps it beating,
The immortality of that love~
Coercing my blood, through
Unwilling veins.

That was all three years ago,
And here I stand.
I live, but I do not feel,
Naught but that ache
And that loneliness,
And that exquisite love
That belongs solely to her.
She's killing me,
But I can't help but love her
Regret what I did wrong. . .
Pray for a day to take it all back,
Beg for a day to get her back.

All the words she spoke of me
The slowness of time
The desperation,
The warmth,
The fear,
Fear of me suddenly no longer being there
I fear so greatly,
That one day she shall be out of reach. . . .

The lovelyness that haunts me
And forces the blood through
Unwilling veins. . . .