the unspoken rule for some solemn

that if given the figure,
you can not yearn for the character
that if given the qualities,
you can not question the fantasy
that if provided with love,
you must forget of the love not given

suffocate with love, figures, it's fair
but allow the mourning, the crying, the upmost despair
because when a child experiences that character leave
they will believe what they don't want to believe

you've taught them they're unwanted,
that's how they'll grow up
they'll evolve and develop thinking they're not enough

like salty ocean waves, a chill floods the heart
the screaming, earth-shattering, ears fail to start
the mumbling, so troubling it's nearly divine
the mother just stares and states, 'i'll deal with what's mine'
it falls to the ground, solid as stone
but it leaks deep roses and bares broken bones
the salt fills her eyes, starting a fire within
for when amber blows, another begins
the screaming was silent, the anger was cold
for the baring of child tore a hole in the soul

the lyrics, encrypted with beauty, blanket the fragile innocence that births soul

lone clarity with delusion, impair the freedom of rationality

however, with the suffocation, the isolation, any person would embark the toll

as sight to the blind, sound to the deaf, touch to the untouched are dire for such entity

but who are we to bask in such thirst?

i like the way you look at me,
but i hate it when you do.
i love it when you kiss my heart,
but it hurts, that's just the truth.

when you leave and look into her eyes,
it reminds me your body is owned.
and this fact gets lost in my abundance of thoughts,
when you bring beauty to my sight of grey tones.

i hate you, but god, are you beautiful.

when you look into my eyes, what do you see?
do you see what I do when I look at you?
do you see the possibilities,
the opportunities?
do you see the ugliness that is so obscure it becomes an artist's best creation?
because when I look at you, and boy do I ever,
i see a reflection of everything I've ever wanted to be.

when a window is opened, what do you notice?
which sense is disturbed first?
is it the coolness as it slips through the bumps on your skin,
is it the whistles the wind sings to your ears,
is it the smell of the crispness that the earth provides,
or is it the sight of the gift the world's given you?
because when I open my windows and I allow myself to sense you,
i can not decipher which sense I feel first.
all at once they explode within me and all that lingers is warmth.

so, again, when you look into my eyes, what do you see?
because I see an ideal that I can't quite grasp.

it is okay to feel twisted, for the world's basis is it's dynamic purpose.
what is sinful to one, is a blessed creation for another.
not through books or education, but living is how some will learn this.
it is lively, it is youthful, it is dreadful through the eye of a mother.
but it is what we must do, to pinch ourselves from the dizziness and convince ourselves we are real.

there is a taste of bitterness
with the absence of solidarity.
the distance between the mirror and reality
draws the border of an exempt paradox.

with the sip of dark syrup, a new image begins to undress,
an image with darkness, my lifeline’s entity.
however, with the blindness of opaque,
a shard of clarity injects my voice box,

wake and observe,
the coldness in my veins, the blood on my hands.
without doubt, without grace, become liable.
“I’ll be good.”