Tired of feeling so,
like the bludgeoning is false.
Memories,
feel as though they're paraphrased.
Jumping from possess to obsess,
the satire of loathing,
only posses the owner of memory.
Ridiculing self, ridiculing self,
righteously juxtaposing pain with
a tyrant.
The one who mourns being one.
Passion has lost its fashion,
but what does it qualify as?
A pained soul with another?
A pained soul destroying another?
Realize this,
the memory changes,
it becomes vague.
But,
does it lose validity?
You're the one who suffers.
No the one who made you.
Treat the end of pain,
like the end of yourself.
A lost,
and dreary,
memory,
not seen clearly.