LOVE HURTS

Life is a battlefield.
Day to day.
With no hope for the end anywhere
  in sight.
Prayers left unopened, unanswered, 
  unheard.
Living is a constant barrage.
The cries of the dying are deafening.
But still it continues endlessly.
Life is a stalemate.
Brutal, harsh, damning.
The skies are scorched blood red.
The air is acrid.
Breathing in poison, caustic.
Life is barren.
Doom of the soul.
Filthy, marred.
Absent of light.
Scavenged, rotting, decayed.
An open grave swallowing.
Stagnant.
Constant horror, terror.
Tortured, sadistically.
The rape of the heart.
Twisted and bent.
Our tears have saturated the ground.
We crawl on bloody hands and knees.
Heads held low.
Racked with pain.
Wrapped in a cloak of suffering.
Minds are rent in two.
Lucidity surrenders.
Paranoia, rampant.
All are mad.
Despair reigns supreme.
Life is a genocide of suicide.
Cut wide open, bleeding out.
Masochism.
The blade traces slowly.
Driven deep.
Torn.
Love, foreign.
Enigma.
Love hurts.
Love hurts.
The last resort used.
Take in the stench of existence.
Heave, wretched.
Tear flesh from flesh.
Scavengers feast.
Constant.
Life becomes elusive.
Vague.
Purged of such.
Life equals death.
The dirt beneath the dirt beneath the dirt.
Quashed.
No more, no more...

SCOTT DAVID BUCKLEY-(20/08/2012)