Seems I like dark deception and the odd manipulative game, I question quality of reflection as each shares the same. And it seemed like love until I’ve finally had enough.
I tie up my own two feet and put my hands straight to shackle, and while the imprisonment is sweet there’s too much bitterness to tackle. And it seemed like love until the rose tint got scuffed.
She shook the flowers from her hair and my fingers were cut from the thorns of the tangles. I thought there were a million clear signs there I took the time to find each direction, possibilities and angles. Did I demonize a saint? or did I give a monster wings? The image is up for perception, not the paint, and the same song is different depending on who sings.
Seems I attract words of blades and metaphorical slaps in the face, deciphering shadows into different shades and ranking them last to first place. And I wanted it to be love, but it was lower when I thought it above.
I see false inflated importance or I see nothing at all. With black and white I took a grey stance, but my planted feet kept me from standing tall. An empty home with a closing wall.
Seems I like dark deception and the odd manipulative game, I convince myself it’s forms of affection, so it’s only I to blame. And it seemed like love, but I chose the noose instead of my glove.