Pitiful fracas.
I am not one with ‘us.’
Boring, so boring, you are?
Leave the energy, soon it will be far.
Fake! Pleasant speech, ridiculing
grandeur coming from a storm brewing.
She can’t be dead!
She can’t be dead!
I hear her in my walks as if they’re dreams,
spiteful heroism coming from rung out themes.

Is she, actually a moment,
or is she
something more tangible.
A lifetime in a pocket,
a watch ticking.
Ticking. Ticking.
Why have I become so weak?
I give into nothing,
or am I just the way she wanted?

She has become so possessive,
just as all that is obsessive,
began to fade away.
Starting a few months after May,
a few thoughts began to dwindle,
but to me, that was only a riddle.
Is she behind the curtain,
they are all but certain.
They miss her, I’m sure,
but to me, death is pure.

I am weak.
So very weak.
She judges the moments.
As i am judged by, not myself,
but by the angels above.
She speaks the language of despair.
Death.
Death to the angels.
Leave me be.
Leave me be.