There is always a battle when come the visitors that arouse the affairs of the heart. These visitors are bound with weapons of hopelessness while armored in ignorance. What man should temper ignorance as armor to fight? And what smith of swords should temper hopelessness? To be pierced by such weaponry reeks more haunt than a dagger's poisoned tip. Because it offers only the victim to wallow in despair. And should the victim strike the ignorant armor, they are left to vulnerability. Should the victim succumb to defeat, fear--in its graceful haste--grows momentum...

In other words, it is always hard to tend to the matters of the heart because a lot of things tend to stop you.

My dispair holds its dead fingers tightly around my heart,
yet caresses the passions of tomorrow's hopes and dreams
in it's finger tips.
Both throbbing as my pulse for living
resides within every beat,
it tenderly releases with each new breathe.


Like a shell, we are used,
we're never dead,
if we only get brused.,,,,,nice write man..

Write back at you. It's a pretty good write I think. So poetic and in tune with yourself.