Die geheimen Tageb├╝cher von einer verderbten Existenz

Behind these gates you will hear my thoughts screaming like nerves under the sun and feel my emotion laughing to the empty ether.
Welcome Dear Wanderer, make yourself at home.
The road is long and tortuous and I hope you enjoy yourself.

Fraternally Yours,
Poison Creeper

Friday, 11 February 2011

Friends

I woke up this morning to realise that the very same thoughts that polluted my brain last night, were still there.
Growling and scratching from the inside the walls of my heart.
Tearing apart the strings of my thoughts.
Burning down the last stems of hope.

And I misse my friends.

Their hugs and the comfort of their smiles.
Their silences or their knowing looks.
Knowing that whatever I do, whatever I think they will be there.

Silent days, staring at bare ceilings or chaotic nights on the dancefloor.

Friends protect.

Now that I am slowly realising that I should let Hope go, that it's time to stop clutching that loose rope, I look back and think at all my friends.

the only trustworthy bond in life.
Despite I thought I had found a stronger bond than this, I have come to realise yet again that it was bound, like any other times, to fail miserably.

I wish i could have all my friends together: Italy, UK, Germany, France, USA...all in one. I wish I could embrace them in one, global hug and just forget all the heartbreaks, rejections, disappointments and failures of my life.

A hug that could soothe the pain that seems to have no intentiuons to leave.

It's a hard thing to do and i am trying to succeed but I know
I have to abbandon Hope and stop crying for this loss.
He's gone and will never come back.
They never do, anyway.

I miss my friends, all of them.


Love and Friendship
by Emily Bronte


Love is like the wild rose-briar,
Friendship like the holly-tree—
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most constantly?

The wild-rose briar is sweet in the spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again
And who will call the wild-briar fair?

Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now
And deck thee with the holly's sheen,
That when December blights thy brow
He may still leave thy garland green.

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