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I am not one for dreams
Yet you have snuck inside mine it seems
I had never thought it true
That one glance, to know it is you

It is you..

My dear we cannot be
For there aren't enough hours
If I could only steal a kiss under raining showers

But the dreams..

The dreams are ours
I love the grass
I love the green
Despite the grueling pain
I mean

Especially how it smells
To watch it rise
To feel the sharp stinging itch
In and around my eyes

Yes.
Spring has come in rapid succession
Full speed ahead, with flawless progression
Filling me, with nasal congestion

So yeah.
Sure.
I Love The Grass
A Minor mistake, on my part, was forgetting the next step in my "surely will never fail" process. I told myself that if I kept making a big deal out of this, it was likely I was going to royally

F up my chances of success. I was nearly there. I had attempted a head start at the beginning of the process, but soon realized that it was quickly catching up to me. I could

C the finish, the release, the end of my long and ever weakening battle. So I did what any lunatic would do, and I sprinted for my life.

I lost consciousness.
Right at the end.
I never made it.
I'm still running.
If you would really like to, play the chords and read.
The constant need to see you.
The relief I feel when I do.
The countless hours I spend
Staying awake trying to destroy it all.

And yet I embrace it, every single time.
Regardless of how much I've never forgotten.
Nothing describes this.

I loathe you.
Not love.
Loathe.

Two people couldn't possibly be as far away from the consoling, rooting, butterfly inducing swelling that the closet lovers receive.

Yet how far away, really, are they?
Loathe, And Love?
If I feel the need to go out of my way to write anything regarding metaphorical dirt with such resentful passion.
How is that not similar to the most cliché of Love Poems?

Nothing. Nothing can describe Loathe, against Love.

Nothing Describes This.
A draft, I guess you could call it.

— The End —