In a wordy battle with trivial dogmatic mentalities , I win by sandwiching my perspectives between my upper lip tubercle and lower lip tubercle.

Sometimes feelings can be hard to interpret.
Its you, but you still can't tell what it means.
Maybe thats part of being human,
That we must be unknowing,
In almost all aspects of life,
Even our own.

I just wish,
That I could figure it out.
Figure out why I pushed you away,

But seem to miss you more everyday.

A little bit of reality and a little bit of chimera,
I'm sitting at the table of silence, lonely in this era.
My eyes are fixed on the ceiling like some projectors
towards sweet memories, listening some lectures.

It's a little bit early and it's a little bit late.
About yesterday or about tomorrow should I say?
Anyway, I'm not anything I seemed to be,
I'm not a brave Cupid of hearts that sets you free.

I feel a little bit cold and I feel a little bit warm,
like after the wine that makes everything have a form
which catches fire quickly both in love and anger,
motivated by infinite agony, searching for an answer.

Is that a little bit important, or is it a little bit trivial?
As a sparkle, a living heart of a strange ritual,
in which it seems for her of love to be unworthy,
then she looked in the mirror and learned about mercy.

My words have a little bit of sun and a little bit of storm.
Even if they're telling the ugly truth that wants to inform
that I want to hear enchanted songs of the waves again
but then I think, is my soul lying to me? It's going to drain?

The soul separates all and puts everything together,
even if it's a healed heart, or light as a feather.
Makes a little bit of damage, then something useful,
if it was sad sometimes, it was always truthful.

Doesn't matter if it's on Mondays or Sundays,
we all are an amalgam of tears and smiles in this maze.
Smiles that are hiding, then show up again and again
sometimes as a rough illusion that drives you insane.

Yes, it's a little bit absurd, but it's a little bit ordinary.
Not everything in this world is a cake with a cherry.
We all have inside a little bit of love, a little bit of hate,
as tough as it is, we accept that this is our fate.

There you are- minding your own **** business
Getting the **** done that you need to get done
And it hits you
A ******* papercut

Funny how something so seemingly harmless and innocent
Can cause so little damage
That bothers you so ******* much
A drop of blood and days of discomfort

Something so miniscule disrupting the simplest of tasks
Stinging like screams for attention
How are you supposed to move on
And make lemonade out of what life hands you
When the juice stings your fingertips
When relief is only resolved
When the issue is acknowledged.

But it’s fine you know
Everything is fine
Plenty of people use paper everyday and live to tell the tale
So really it’s not a big deal
Get enough and your fingertips will callus over
Soft things don’t go well with hard edges
Maybe by not being soft, then you can get more **** done

But by getting hard you’ll feel less
And wouldn’t it be nice to feel all things
Knowing fully well it’s worth the pain of a ******* paper cut

Oh wouldn't it be nice
If we listened to learn
Rather than fight?

Life is like Ikea,
Feels like it will never end,
But when it does,
It is too late.

A labyrinth you enter,
Beds and pillows guide the way,
Seems so cynical and perfect,
Still the hassle lies within.

It begins as an endless curiosity,
Soon trivially you follow the lines,
The excitement slowly fades,
It just has to be done.

Here I've grown to accept the riddles of each day, to culminate into a coalesced mesh of disarray.
Never would the seeds down under sprout to see the sun at the mere sound of thunder.
X marks the spot somewhere dissolving in my gut, wrenching at the chance to give both some and none of which we call *****.
I've lost my faith in humanity,
I've lost humanity in my faith.
Yet I'd face my fate if only just to sate the state.
This flip book of stop.
Animation.
Assimilates fremescent assibilation,
And similarly tastes terrible,
Savoring like dry sponge, and tied tongues,
It's incredibly trivial, just a trivia of syllables stripped up to simple tools.
Simple tools.
Simple...