Today I woke up feeling quite fulfilled today
...haha, yeah right.
But let's pretend I was a glass of water in the eyes of an optimistic,— I'd be half full, right?
Still if I ever said that enough times in this negative world, they'd all say I'm always so full of myself, right?

I wish time was as easy as skipping rocks over a pond.
It would be wonderful if, with a skip, I could
effortlessly transport myself to the other side
of that looming idea, finding the promise of the
future waiting for me there.

As I take each step, I envision them as stepping stones,
guiding me towards my goals and ambitions,
hoping I won't encounter another heartbreaking
moment that brings tears to my eyes.

The serene green scenery that surrounds
me serves as a reminder that my soul is still
burdened with the stains of past mistakes.
Yet, despite the passing of time, I find myself
at a loss for words, unable to utter another
empty prayer while feeling a lump in my throat,
like a frog is trapped within.

The missed chances,— you and I are the same,
still like misplaced socks, I haven't found
my match. Equal the amount of the days
I start to swallow novacane
I'll still pick up the roses that turn into diamonds,
demanding the worth of a beautiful love.
Betting on the odds with every card on the table,
my eyes feel ****** for loving you, while their
tears are blocked like the Kariba Dam.

There's no truth to recognise, with two lovers
completely blind
Landlocked, never to drown away enough in
our own emotions, with nothing much to sea.
Would you believe me or not,— depends on our
bad religions, putting faith in the words we hardly heard.
"I love you my son, I love you my daughter,
   I love you my sister  I love you my brother"

Every thought of love is televised, and we've been
ill-advised. Our daughters and sons shouldn't learn
from us,— from boys who write about *** and love
And girls who read into them, and give away the
innocence in between their thighs.

       The truth with ourselves is absolute...

The night's blowouts — Are like my last candle before the night is gone. It's a comforting ritual, lighting that candle and reveling in the flickering flame... The soft glow illuminates the room, casting a gentle light on the shadows that gather. It's in these moments, in the solitude, that I find solace. I cherish the tranquility as it offers me an opportunity to reflect and escape the chaos of the world. The candle's warm glow creates a haven, —a sanctuary where I can truly be myself.

And while I don't mind being alone, there is an undeniable
pull to the memories we shared: They wrap around my mind like vines, intertwining with my thoughts and emotions.
Looking in the mirror, I see my reflection intertwined with
the shadow of your memory.
It's as if we're dancing together, across time and space,
moving in harmony with the music of our past. The melody of our shared experiences plays softly in the background, a bittersweet tune that still resonates deep within my heart.
The dance we shared was a masterpiece—,_ filled with
passion, laughter, and tears. Even though the song has
ended, its melody lingers, etching its mark on my soul.

Still like the past, the memories in it comes to pass, allowing us to grow and evolve. They are like stepping stones, guiding us towards a future where new memories are waiting to be created.
Even if I have to create a new life without you...

"**** the world,"
seems to be a statement easy enough for a lot of people to say.
And at most we **** mother nature raw, cos we failed to protect her; I just hope we can be more responsible for her baby one day. But I do hear her walls shaking, as her eyes are timid tears blocked behind a lot of smoke.
Maybe we should write for her an SOS as a last hope, and stop feeding our prideful thoughts against her,— food for thought? Truthfully, this first part is more like a representation of how
men tend to **** over their girl.

I guess I should include myself by this second bad serving,
along the lines of me remembering how I used to treat girls like second servings. Some would call a woman sweet, but I'm not convinced of it being a compliment,— more of a dessert thing.
Like how she's supposed to taste sweeter every time you and her kiss, as she's supposed to be a treat, but you had to spoil her. Spoiling yourself by spoiling yourself on her. Careful now, you might have misread what she was saying when she bit her lips.

But by this third part, I tried convince myself not to swear,
still **** it, — I was at this point more annoyed with myself,
as a person who knows they're prone to getting sick
...So they get annoyed with their health. As I fail to have healthy conversations with myself, and reflect on some memories.
But my memories are mostly bad dreams, and bad dreams mostly make up a lot of bad things.
And keeping them to myself means I'll always blame myself more, than wanting to split the blame between friends and family.
And like the second verse,
I now understand the taste of getting a bad serving.
Unfortunately I don't bite my lips as an expression of pleasure. My lips to the taste of failure is always a ******,—so right now, this part is really ******* hurting.

So can somebody please, get this ******* disappointment
off me, before it thinks it's turning me on, but it's close
to offing me.

I flip conversations with people like a mattress,
just an excuse to put a lot of arguments to rest.
As if time isn't good enough for me to miss,
I'll set my targets on doing something better another time,
to come back to the previous line's rhyme,— just
to prove I haven't fallen asleep, as I digress.

Still with all due respect, respect for a lot of things
seems a bit late, when all the clocks are put to death;
while we're all killing most of the time. But I should
bag a couple more seconds, to add to the restlessness
under the bags of my eyes.
....I'm always so less inspired, when I actually have
something sensible to write,— To then choose to write
more when I'm round the corner of Writer's block,
breaking down every block of thoughts in my Tetris mind.

But seriously, what was the point of this in the first
place anyways,— right about some random mattress.
A mattress sort of represents me trying to stay soft with
my words, but being firm with their initial cause.
And somewhere in between this prose, I'm supposed to
quote how you shouldn't be sleeping on my words.
That's easy an cliche, a cliche to me, of waking up to an
ugly day from a long beauty rest. Sorry I meant to say
ironic; and it's sort of comic.  Not the one that makes
you laugh, but the material magazine you flip over
like the start of my random mattress.

And just like that, how I start most of the things in my life,
is how it ends, and starts again. So I guess for flips sake,
I'm back to flipping the mattress again, and again...