Swirly Thing Pain, deceit, betrayal.
Like a broom through the cobwebs of concious thought, and dreams.
I welcome the pain, like an old friend.
Unusual as it was to feel no pain it is over now.
The need to drink of the pain, forget, escape.
I am the hypocrite.
I am what I hate.
It now doesn't matter about my morals, or my beleifs,
When there is no one to watch them, and no one to care.
Why does it matter if I uphold my beliefs when no one cares?

I wish to forget, to ignore.
Dreams crushed, hopes forgotten.
Deceit is now normal, the pain ereases all.
And in the pain I find solace.

Deceit: this makes it worse, as I drink of the pain I am flooded.
The stabbing pain of betrayal is a knife driven through my heart.
But worse, through my head.

How can I trust again, how can I think?
How can I not think about all that I feel?

Beauty presents itself
opportunity lost.
Lust remains, need remains,
The desire to touch, commit, anticipate... stopped by the past.

I could confront, questions, speak ill of
but there is nothing so ugly as two people full of hate.
I do not wish to be one of those two.


With one cruely engineered stroke
she became a broom, in my head, in my dreams.
Hopes shattered,
The life I dreamt of will never be

The pain of deceit, the pain of betrayal
The ability to feel, gone.

I used to be able to feel,
now emotion is a cold stone, sitting in my gut,
preventing the intake of love, food, drink.

but the desire to try has left
Love is useless, desire oppressive.

The desire is the pain
the pain is the solace.
(c) Alan Bailward, 1997