unbornbloom

(Heres a testament to mycraptacular writing ability for ya darlin. )

What will I make the truth?
When all of discovery revolves around a mirror.
The ship sails off the edge,
and I begin to push the limits again
in hopes of finally
pawning of my soul
for the rewards reaped
of its manipulation.
A heart made of gold.
Wrapped in web.

What will I make out of you?
The menagerie of chords
all displaying differences,
consequences of
my razor edged tears
splintering strings,
connecting me.
Where will you fall?

And what does my
soul mean to tell me
when it shivers and feels
so laden and filled?
Is that joy or dread,
tugging on the end?
Am I half awake,
half dead?
Weeping and singing
to the personification
of my melancholy.
The mirrored girl,
looking back at me.

Wheres the truth in your eyes?