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Contoured Oct 8
Disintegrated wings,
Even angels fall too.
A glance up to the sky,
Caught a transcending view.

Landed on two feet,
An angel's new terrain.
Only few will sit and worship,
But most attempt in vain.

The sky was never cleared,
In fact, formations all the more.
A rabbit, a cake, an astronaut,
Even rain would still downpour.

Following in hopeful doubt,
Freedom's symbol is no chain,
Bare in mind, no change occurred,
The droplets were always acid rain.

Caught in fair deceit,
For my fault was to submit.
When glancing from the outside,
I didn't see the whole of it.

Because angels never fall,
With wings upon their back.
For a fall is cunning foolery,
And we're victims of attack.

Stuck in hypnotic values,
Our worth seemed to accrue.
But we must've forgotten the fact:
That the devil walks here too.
Contoured Jul 23
Roses may be red,
But I'm always blue.
Someone could show me paradise,
And I'll see a grotesque view.

Roses may be red,
But sometimes I'm blue.
I'm aware of the sunlight,
And I'm slightly warmer too.

Roses may be red,
But I'm feeling less blue.
I've met you, extraordinaire,
A palette of colors, anew.

Roses may be red,
But I'm no longer blue.
You brought paradise to me,
Because paradise is you.
Contoured Jul 23
I am not the princess.
I've had a pea under my mattress for a while now,
But you've found no concern in that.
In fact, it's slowly been duplicated.
At first, only by a few,
Then dozens.
Now there are hundreds of them,
Unconstrained by the confines of the bed.
But so long as there are peas,
You will argue them to fit.
So long as there are peas,
I will lie, uneasy,
Though I am no princess.
Contoured Jun 26
My mind blisters,
From the thoughts it contains.
To formulate their verbal representation,
I'd be tasked to break the restraints.

But what an arduous task,
To release such material.
When the thoughts are masked by cobwebs,
Made from freshly cut steel.

Now don't find it unjust,
That my words stay contained.
I yearn to share with you my mind,
But my will has been drained.

To encounter dismissal,
With my newly-found hope,
Holds the excess thoughts hostage,
In bitter pursuit to cope.
My faulty thoughts have become rejects.
Contoured Jun 6
I hope to never grow old.
Of course not in a literal sense,
That's inclusive in the natural progression of time.
No, I mean in every other sense.
Passion.
That's what I fear to lose.
I fear to forget.
I struggle, conceptually, with its disengagement.
How can such an emotion wither?

The nights when I lay by your side,
Only to glance into the limitless bounds of your eyes.
That smile, oh that smile.
To not witness that smile would be a tragedy.
The feeling that I provoke that smile,
Engulfs me in affection,
And I fall more in love with you than any can believe to be possible.

Too see the sunrise,
And stand motionless, awestruck.
Its vibrant colors,
Grazing the memories of childhood wonder.
Reliving moments,
Once believed to be lost.
Holding on to a moment mercilessly,
Attempting to extend it to many,
To never wander from it.

To pursue limitless enjoyment,
Never forcing a smile because you don't have to.
To laugh at everything,
With everyone.
The recognition of simple pleasures,
All compiled in a scrapbook of memories.
One to be created at a later time,
Because you're consumed in remembering now.

But eventually,
You'll lose the memories you wish to document.
Because the sand of time slipped through your unforgiving hands,
And you forgot
The once vibrant skies,
Will fade to dull variations of the same tone.
As nature must be re-painted from time to time,
Which you forgot.
The laughs,
They'll fade to echos of your own,
With no one left to reciprocate such an intense expression of joy,
Because you forgot.

Unforgiving forget will consume that which you should've never forgotten.
Because as time grows old,
The body does too.
And as the past begins to wither,
The brain disengages.

As time progresses,
Passion does not have to be lost.
You do not have to forget.
The things forgotten are what you wish to forget.
Contoured Apr 27
And in the smallest matter of time,
My hair went numb.
My eyes no longer heard the crude respiratory patterns of the fellow cynic.
My fingers saw the over-appreciated path away from the now.
The mind I'd so delicately restrained surcharged your hurtful chatter for the worthlessness it possessed.
For I had found not what I thought to be the whole of myself,
But what actually was.
Among the wilted carnations,
The shrunken produce,
The wasted inquisition,
All the places in which you dwell,
I will no longer.
Contoured Apr 27
I realize I'm not something to everyone but it hurts not to be everything to someone.
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