I wish I could ariculate,
but it has all been written before.
And yet here I am still dreaming of the ineffable, the inexplicable, the as yet udetermined.

Oh to be a cliche,
idealising times of the past
while th present grows bleaker.

Things lack beauty.
The beauy I find in books and films, are lies when it comes to my reality.
And the arduous task of going on feels like a puzzle impossible to solve but one I cannot leave alone.
Things lack beauty,
for me.

Life lacks the luster I have been shown previously existed,
and by romantising the previous, I only pull myself furthe away from the beauty I know must be here.
It must.
Must't it?

However the rare specks of it I find are the ones in her eyes.
And they parade themselves infront of me, knowingly.

But such things have been written before and will be wrote again.
And yet still I wish to articulate.

Oh to be a cliche.