The Depression Of Fake Love Poem by Ace Of Black Hearts

To the sick and indifferent. To the blind wicked perverse and much worse. To all those so close to the edge. Do not fear the fall. Embrace it in all its glory. Its a forgotten story of olden times. The pleasure is so fine. Love is so fake when you've seen the bottom of this black lake. Frozen over. So much colder. Are you getting bolder? Soon or later you'll hate her, like all the rest. We are just not among the truly blessed. I try to rest my head, hoping for another pass over. A near miss. An alternate existence. Its the nightmare of the never ever land. Isn't it so grand. Holding hands walking down the isles of the forsaken and the damned. A forced arrangement, engagement. A suffering stranger. Caring when there nothing there. An empty bottomless abyss. A black hole smashing goodness of the sun. The absence of life. A suicide by a sharp and jagged knife. The night is becoming a monster of greater demons. Your eyes start bleeding. Your body starts heeding the dire warnings, dire threats. Trying to forget all the regret. In a fret. Caught in a humans net. Sufficating on pillow. Becomeing another widow. Death is on the rise. Look at all the bodies and where they lye. So much turmoil in the sky. A war upon the heavens. We are me insects, on a scale beyond our greatest imagination. Being of the divine is just another book of fiction. Morals are drowned by all the hate. Rules broken by those who got it all. A pledge is made up to shut up the discontent. The important is so irrevelent. Prevent a dieaster with no mercy. Dictate whose soul we should break. Aggravate the hopeless with promises that can never be kept. A soldier killing his own with such an indepth personal touch. All for the cause of a disguise. We hideing so many upon there demise. Hoping for some kind of compremise. A doomsday agreement leaves so many bitter setiments. The hunger is dragging its feet. Still there no sympothy. This is the pleasure of constant agony.