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Jordan Bryson May 2016
fire-fire,
lair-lair
can't see
where this heat ends
or where it originally begins
following fashion
but giving up on trends
art is a concept
and there is nothing left of my personality to defend
strictly forbidden
the rules i tend to bend
you impress my heart
i am your friend
Jordan Bryson May 2016
Say "hello!" to the little-orange friends, with them our mind extends; and further. Or is it...how far?
Please drive slow, crawling level with the wheels of the car. Look, it's that space, the "old place"; remembering that face. From her lips, my past, I trace.
Definitions tend to change. The way they are described sounds so strange. Oh, you fickle little words, or more so, you ink scribbles resembling flocks of birds.
I have been asked to descry meaning from you, from such language.  It's a clairvoyant mission that will only promise me anguish. My mortality,  my fears, all of the limits holding me shall be broken and  then finally, my own identity, I'll vanquish.
Jordan Bryson Apr 2016
I am a dreadful darkness, do you think love will work for us? Images, words, are these what you trust? I have swords for you, dripping with lust. The light shows you my reflection, but I'm trying to tell you, that mirror is clouded with dust. I throw what I have away and I so earnestly collect pain. Yours, his, hers; it's all the same. Selfish, maybe, but we all desire to play; this isn't and it never was, my game. Do you hear my voice? If you decide, that you do want to love me, then I must let you hold the blame.

Humanity is on the other side of myself; I cannot reach it. I've never been taught, you see, I have nothing for anyone. I perceive what you want. I am able to give you what you want. The problem is that I don't know what I want. So, in choosing the default, I want everything. I will take that from you, love and all, so that we are bound to fall. Oh, I pray to god that you speak my language. I can't ******* hold my tongue. I've wrote a thousand ballads, a thousand songs I've sung and not one of them has touched them. Oh, even to have them turn in my direction; pain sees in me. It's the toll I pay, the ghosts who walk this world come to me for its collection.
To the pretty girl, who's looking to me through glass, but cannot pass through.

— The End —