characterless and beautiful; those mourning voices- I am too accustomed- of life's ******* fumes-
is this not a reality/ or just my mind's brilliance?
I am sweet- , it's like telling me I am good but no good-
those ***** nights- that you might even **** for good
black and white- am I the only one looking at grey?
so as it appears- that lust wins, for all, and for good
is there any remedy for mind- thinking mind obsessed with your thoughts?
oh honey, did I say not that you are beautiful- we are not match.
thereby not compatible- yet I can't take my mind off you
saving me a cure, for this illness thats growing in my flesh and bones
exactly this is not a meditation- writing for heart, or memory - or say reliving lusting memory
so as it is, it may be- are we allowed to say' its hurting'
or just be shut up about life- and pretend 'its polite not to be too open'.
its like a British thing - too swallowed up inside; yet so many people on street, lying down- looking for spare change- or ***;
people will say oh its 'dependence on *****'- *******, to all- who says
but who am I to say this?  
I am like running blue and black- at the same time; wishing to un-done my love
and could give them to people, who need
these words smell like decay- well break it more- who would bother
as if we really care- I feel empty, vain and disdain- how openly I confess more?
enough of this- let's just go back, this mind's brilliance is for nothing
it's all like an old brag- just take a drag, and steel the moments from night
don't be bothered- why to read this, I am not interested
there aren't any running thoughts behind, but who cares?
its all surrealistic, struggling to accept- you are nowhere around.
be a characterless *****, you foolish heart- be a *****- **** you
for these unnecessary troubles-
frozen in this realm of life and death- floating around somewhere in between
only if you were around.