Gazing through the liminal windows
Only to find what I already hold so dearly
Fronting smiles for a quick benefit
As my stone-set complexion wanes wearily
And, my Humanity animates this miserable repose
Into a shameless portrayal of diminished whit
And, all of these unsent letters forming disappointment
Remind me that this sickly apathy could have been avoided
I saw the torment approaching from behind every grin-
Connecting my reality to this life I've been appointed
A continuation of actuality so meek and despondent
Vaguely showcasing the sensations of the sublimity within
How can the objective see all this self absorption?
When we're looking through a constant one way mirage
A reflective outlook from one of the searching minds
Fixated on all the shells of this social entourage
Pondering the inner entanglement of their sad misfortunes
leaving nothing but questions with no answers to find
Impossible as it seems to depict the substance of perception
These literal creations we compose must amount to something
Or at least comfort us with a contorted definition of self
Without this written word - would I be left with nothing?
Can I bare to see myself forgotten as a faint misconception?
Should I clot the thread of memory with a part of myself?
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
Gazing through the liminal windows
Only to find what I already hold so dearly
Fronting smiles for a quick benefit
As my stone-set complexion wanes wearily
And, my Humanity animates this miserable repose
Into a shameless portrayal of diminished whit
And, all of these unsent letters forming disappointment
Remind me that this sickly apathy could have been avoided
I saw the torment approaching from behind every grin-
Connecting my reality to this life I've been appointed
A continuation of actuality so meek and despondent
Vaguely showcasing the sensations of the sublimity within
How can the objective see all this self absorption?
When we're looking through a constant one way mirage
A reflective outlook from one of the searching minds
Fixated on all the shells of this social entourage
Pondering the inner entanglement of their sad misfortunes
leaving nothing but questions with no answers to find
Impossible as it seems to depict the substance of perception
These literal creations we compose must amount to something
Or at least comfort us with a contorted definition of self
Without this written word - would I be left with nothing?
Can I bare to see myself forgotten as a faint misconception?
Should I clot the thread of memory with a part of myself?
