February 24th, 2010; 12:32am.
The Lone Wolf: she who wanders alone, wheeps alone, bleeds alone, and dies alone...
The weakest link you could say. I merely suffer in silence; showing only the lies you find beneath my smile, that which is false enthusiasm. Am I actually happy, or is it just the lies, or even the truth? It can't possibly be the truth; such is only revealed through the scars, the bleeding. I subconsciously hold the truth, but it's only to be seen by those closest.
However, the question arises of, what exactly is trust? Can one really trust another, or is trust merely just another lie, or even perhaps a truth to be told? Yes, trust and truth appear the same, but one must really question, are they really? Many live blindly into trust; myself learning the hard way not to go headway into trust, for it's seldomly the truth.
For if truth and trust were the same, then what is a lie to a secret, and how to all four become relative? The truth and trust could all be a lie, and everything a secret. As can truth be a secret and trust be a lie. A secret must behold trust, as trust must behold a promise, but aren't all promises meant to be broken? Meant to shatter and decay the little trust you witheld; then again the trust was a lie, so which are you truely shattering, the trust or the lie?
In retrospect however, what is a lie without the truth? I declare it is merely nothing; a waste you could say. Lies are the verbal trash of society; meant to be disposed of and earased from existance. Without the existance of lies, we'd all know who we truely are, yet instead we all wear these masks that which hide our real, true, self.
Without this nonsense, this act in the play of life would finally end. All would see the true stories of our lives versus the ones we create for others as a lie, and as a result, live. All would see beyond the shadows of what others want to see from us; how we think and act. We'd see beyond the stereotypical blinders that we wear to shield us from other's of a different nature than our own.
This is our life's play, and you're the director. Lies, truths, secrets, trust, and promises all together tossed into our little performance; the question is, where will you choose to cut the scene?
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Diary of the Midnight Rider
Only a meager glimpse into the wanderings of my mind, and the works that such wanderings create when written with a pen.
Editors note: Many of these poems, and thoughts, come without a date; however most of these aren't too recent. Alot of this st
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Toga IV
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