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Hi there Hurricane,
We meet yet again,
What started as just a gust,
Turned into the putrefaction of hate.

Just lust, ***** and a whole lack of trust,
Conversations became bold,
We talked the moon to the earth,
But home was always too far to know.

Pieces missing, people new,
Your world was an oyster,
But for me it was still stew,
We tried to build a home together,
But we burnt it down,
In perfect symmetry together.

I hate you,
I love you,
Which of the two,
Is never quite known as a fact.

We're slow roasting,
Into oblivion,
We try to hold onto,
What we thought was perfection.

We stabbed ourselves,
With many fine knives,
The Queen would often wonder,
Where her China went every night.

Goodbye together, goodbye alone,
Goodbye we can never say,
Yet we know it in our bones.

Lust is forgiving,
Love is not,
We'll hold each other close,
But we'll never tie the knot.
We found wings,
Within a storm,
So we flew,
To destinations unknown.

Hold my hand,
And lead the way,
For wherever you fly,
I'll forever be your tail.

We'll soar in the sky,
O're tress and hills,
We'll fly out of sight,
O're clouds and hills.

If we fall down below,
I'll be by your side,
We'll plummet together,
Till again we find our height.

The sights we'll see,
Will be magical,
The stories we'll make,
Will be mystical.

There'll be happiness,
And there'll be sorrows,
We'll overcome them all,
As we cross the globe.

And eventually these wings,
Will start wilting away,
Feathers falling,
Each with a story to tell.

We'd have lived through it all,
Together in soul,
Even with our bodies,
Away at different ports.
Dearest mother,
I have a complaint,
You've ruined me forever,
With your decadent trends.

While I was a child,
I wanted what others got,
A cacophony of words,
In the form of popular songs.

Instead I got tunes,
Which I hated quite a bit,
Like some guy named Cohen,
Singing about a coat.

You gave me the Beatles,
And the moody blues,
When all I wanted then,
Were Vengaboy's tunes.

I suffered through a myriad,
Of nonsensical words,
Sung by some fellow,
Who called himself Scatman John.

It was truly awful mother,
Having to hear,
Some old country blues,
Through the mouth of Kenny Rogers.

You gave me a group of guys,
Who called themselves Queen,
What a weird thing to do,
When all I wanted was Emenem.

I heard of starry nights,
In the tune of Don McLean,
You even gave odd sounds,
Through some group call Floyd.

Now look what you've done,
Through this selfish act,
You made me fall in love with words,
And inspired me to write.

Dearest mother,
I have a complaint,
You've ruined me forever,
With your elegant trends.
It's a scary world,
My dearest friend,
Full of hate,
And intolerance.

It's a scary world,
My quite one,
Full of loss,
And loud guns.

It's a scary world,
My silent child,
Your body loses,
To an old man's voice.

It's a scary world,
Ooh faithful one,
Where men in saffron,
Can chop you up.

It's a scary world,
My weeping heart,
Where a simple thought,
Can put you behind bars.

It's a scary world,
My lost soul,
Where rapists walk,
While women cower.

It's a scary world,
My confidant,
Where freedom loses,
To growling chants.
We were the orange tree,
Amongst the green leaves.
We were the **** duckling,
In a pond full of white ducks.

We were bitter espresso,
In a cafe of caramel lattes.
We were the violin,
At an EDM concert.

We were different,
We were unique.
We were happily depressed,
In a world driven by happiness.

We were forever in love,
With an expiry date.
We were mentors of life,
When neither wanted to live.

We were always meant to die,
To become a better you and I.
We were always meant to be different,
When the world was looking for the same.

It would always be,
As it was intended to be.
A bittersweet good-bye,
Onto the next phase of life.
One of the scariest things about life,
Is when it's all going right,
There's only one way for it to turn.

The thing about good times is,
That it makes you blind to any other reality,
Good times last forever,
And then they don't.

Time, is stolen from you,
Love, is ripped away,
People, are snatched from your existence,
And all you can do is watch.

Good times have an ominous way,
Of finding the perfect timing,
They know when they're needed the most,
And they know when to hurt you the most.

But the opposite of good times isn't bad times,
It's a void.
A lack of existence of anything or anyone,
It's a world in limbo,
Spinning at twice the speed.

Bad times are manageable,
The end of good times...is the end.
Is it wrong,
To not ask why,
To listen to my moans,
And just hear me cry.

Is it wrong,
To feel alone sometimes,
To be left in the dark,
Without wanting any light.

Is it wrong,
To want to cry,
To just need a shoulder,
With no reasons why.

Is it wrong,
To occasionally hate life,
To want nothing more,
Than the solace of the quite.

Is it wrong,
To lobotomize,
The part of the brain,
That questions why.

Is it wrong,
To hate your own sight,
When the world cheers you on,
And all you can do is sigh.

Is it wrong,
To fall out of love,
Yet be so caught,
You don't know how to give up.

Is it so wrong...
To simply be right?
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