I've been meaning to write you, but my words are all too stuck in their ways. They wish to be spoken and long to be felt, but to be honest they all lack virtue. All they can do now is hurt you.
Drenched in dopamine
These words swim within
Gasping for air
They plead for solace
In the jungle of thought
They inhale agony
And exhale apathy
They are jaded implicitly
These words
I secretly imprisoned
Still inconvenience me
They cripple my heart
Despite their innocence
I can not trust them
Hence my silence
Hence the look in my eyes
My stomach was weak
I saw novelty in every lie
But to be honest
I been meaning to ask
Is it too late for us?