Little white lies paint the clouds in the sky.
Turning the sunset into cloud cover.
Turning the melting colors into a blank, empty canvas.
And in that blank canvas
you are left to only wonder what is behind
your little white lies
a phenomenal, extraordinary prism
the refraction of white light,
turning something into nothing.
i wish i was a prism,
for at least then i could create
artistic pictures
and breathtaking visuals.
but no matter what i create,
i am still meaningless
four dimentional thoughts.
senseless thoughts.
the kind of emotions you’ve never experienced.
the kind of thoughts that make the leaves change colors before your eyes
the kind of thoughts that make the tide drift away and never return.
the kind of thoughts that drive the most stable people insane.
the feeling you get when staring at the bottomless sky.
the feeling you get when faced with bottomless love.
four dimentional feelings
can anybody understand these four dimentional feelings?
Death is

You knew
I wrote this as my heart screamed in pain.
I found this poem from months ago while looking for the truth I left behind.
Oh, how frivolous death truly is.
I no longer fear the quietus that will one day consume me.
Death is no more than the punctuation on the end of our tragic tale.
It's no more than a remedy for humanity.
Humanity is the grossest display of intelligence.
The most grotesque example of curiosity.
To call our species remarkable would be a scourge upon the word.
We taint the very things we love,
and incubate hate.
I take great umbrage in knowing my meaningless existence was spent as a human.
The contumely we have towards ourselves is enough to shed light on how excessively horrible we really are.
I am engulfed in wanhope,
infected with dispair.
the girl who stirs the fog.
the whispy liquid air that swirls around her feet.
the cold caresses her dew covered cheeks.
the evening’s drooping cloud cover whispers in her ears.
the mellow sting of autumn's wind laps away her tears.
the misty vapor pivots around her gait.
she drifts delicately across the open plain,
was it her thoughts that brought her here?
or was it the simple joy of inhaling cold frost and exhaling warm smoke?
the world may next know about the girl who stirs the fog.
if the sun chose not to rise,
would you blame the stars because they continue shining?
Or would you blame the world because it continues spinning.
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