The Book It's Been Written In

I believe in a love so strong that it could rip the pages from the seams of the book it's been written in,
but they tell me such a passion could never exist.
I'd like to write the truth on the world in every shade of Sharpie known to man,
but they say that the truth is far too difficult to bear.
I suppose it could be true.
Who am I, after all, to say I know anything beyond the stories I've been fed by my own screwed up society?
I've never really known the truth behind the illusion of forever.
A temporary place in time that expires along with our souls,
or forever and a day;
it's such an erotic temptation to believe in.
Or perhaps forever just means never,
but that's merely the most simple to swallow in hopes of avoiding a greater purpose
or dodging a bullet that creates the wounds which define us.
I find my own intoxication in the dreams that plague my mind in the depths of the darkness.
It's here where I can see through to my very core,
picking apart the desires that I've craved
for so long that it seems as though they've become permanently inked to the veins inside of me. I've found my place in this world beyond the realms of expectations,
for I find disaster in following the path that lies ahead of me,
set out in place by the very souls that claim to see through me.
Those are the souls which are blind,
standing quietly behind as the flames of my passions singe my throat
in every attempt to speak a truth that burns so deeply inside me.
Duplicated versions of one another,
all fighting together to draw me into the world they approve of,
for they find overwhelming intensity in having a mind susceptible to observing opposing perceptions.
There are times when I close my eyes
and I wonder if they can feel the restraints that bind them to the sheets they sleep in.
I wonder if they can even feel it anymore,
as their souls are bound and raped in the box they've closed themselves up in.