When stupidity reigns supreme, I write shit like this.

I have feelings for you like I have never had for another person before. But the real question is how you feel about me.

I'd pour my heart out to you. I'd let down my guard, swear to God.

I just want to know the truth for the first time.

Am I special to you?

Or am I just a face in the shadow of greats?

Just a voice in a choir of saints?

Just another guy..?

I want to be your everything.

And I want to be your reason why.

And I want to be above the rest.

Oh how unimaginable it is.

The past is a sign of the future.

I told you a few months ago to love who your heart tells you. I told you

"Love who your heart tells you to, Because your heart is better at loving than your brain, but don't go anywhere without both of them, for they work together to keep your head up in hard times."

I said those words with the hope of you loving me.

With the hope in my heart of glass, with my eyes and lips sewn shut, that you would end up being the one to save me from myself.

Save me from this eternity spent in some blackened limbo with nowhere to go.

Just wet the brush and the thinnest papers of my souls with the color of your scarlet lips and let me fall into your velvet pained heart.

I want to fall into your oblivion and let down my guard that I've so carefully kept up, even still as it is.

Just let me know if I can. And please be honest.

Don't let those beautiful lips whisper a single false word to me because I would let my guard down for a woman like you.

And I want this paper to be waterproof, and for it to never grow thin or worn down, like the rest, because you, my love.

You.

Are.

Perfect.

And if this is wrong, I don't want to be right.

Now it's time to let my burgundy heart rest in your arms for the rest of this dark eternal night. Oh please open the door of your arms to me.

Goodnight.

The theater is closed. (Not the page.)

I wonder if I'm living some second life where I pretend I'm not a sad excuse for a person. If this life I'm living I'm actually happy again, which I thought could never be.

I write only when the living fill these coffins. When the dead rise again with the saddest of rivers flowing.

But maybe the pen has run dry because It's been scribbling on the Richter scale of the beating of my heart for you.

And my brain is functioning right because the cogs have been un-mashed and put back in their place where I can see that this place is only the door to eternity.

And that I need to open this door with open eyes and an open mind, with a pathetic toothless smile like that of a scarecrow whose mouth has been silenced for the remainder of what lies beyond that chipped, splintered, and wooden door of eternity.

The movie in this theater is now but a dream where there are no happy endings and no more I love you's because the dream has become a nightmare we all live with.

So turn off the screen and this theater can close down because I am happy again.

For now.