An addict in remission,
A side effect of realism
Is losing the ability to listen,
So all the sounds and the voices
Run around in your mind,
With no one to catch them,
No one to give them rhythm,
So they falter and wilt,
And later you wallow around in guilt,
'Cause of the guest you've become
in your own body imprisoned,
Watching your life like a television,
Your sense of expression
Lost in the repetition,
And what was once a habit,
A way to say goodnight to your mind,
Is now a foot unable to walk
After forgetting the mechanism,
And omitting the familiarity,
A progress in regression,
So you stand,
hands and eyes full to the brim
Unable to empty even a little bit
Of the chaos you've been given,
In those letters and words,
You feel no recognition,
Your gut carrying all the crumbled pages,
The barrel of your unwrittens,
But it's like your hands've been cursed,
To sort this mess they've been forbidden,
So you're only invited to a blank page
To listen to your own criticism.

She waited and waited for the light to refract,
To see herself in the faces of nearby passengers,
Through the walk, everything was distorted,
Even familiar gestures was reeking of strangers.

Triangles inside of squares, clinks of spacious voids,
So when the negotiating rain offered further distortion
She gladly wore blurry eyes and loosened her senses,
At least she could find a companion of some proportion.

And as it hailed and poured she's gone half blind,
She might have settled for half a reason, half a person,
And tried to shower their miscommunications
With everything not contributing to their diversion.

And similar to an apple core, she discarded herself,
Hands still in search for that common ground,
And when her senses were once again alert to movement,
She found her mind a desert without a sound.

So she ran to the river, desperate to see the light,
Her irises burned as she stared holes at the sun,
She swore to always run away from the rain,
The mistakenly soothing pattern on her skin now made her want to churn.

And she drew a line of transparent shards of glass,
Gathered around her forte, the light's always welcomed,
Because she learned to start the search from inside,
Loneliness is only an illusion, inside her soul was a multitude of spectrums.

Toward the past we ran, hand in hand,
Rushing the memories back to blank,
Once again sharpening two pencils,
A time when the banter was at full potential.

We are heading back to the prologue,
Plot twists at peace, none of them evoked,
We'll blind the shatters, till it's only a glimpse,
A collision between two foreign winds.

We ushered our bitter wounds and tears,
Till they were specs, as we shifted gears,
And finally we were on the very first step,
Excitement turning its back to the mountain edge.

We were able to see each other's features once again,
Newly acquainted faces free of taint,
Back to the reasons to follow the heart's desires,
The same road that would lead us to the fire,
once again.

So with sweaty hands and frantic fingers,
We tore those beautiful pages with anger,
Till our story only had a tragic epilogue,
A lesson for all strangers to leave things at small talk.