the world.
filled with pools of water and washed away regret. but so deep with regrets and fear of the fore coming.
the world. with trees of beautiful green and red roses too dont ever seem to bloom in the eyes of the people for the continuation of constant world war three with our physical appearance.
the world. with trees that stand as high as our worries and grass as sharp as the pain that lingers within, it seems so easy to wake up at the crack at dawn and take our good time to paint a smile and carefully dot our eyes with the plastic of the worlds personality. but the world
is so beautiful-so pure. the water so crisp and clean.
until the touch of fingers contaminates the beauty within, shreds apart the trees and crumbles the structure until there is
nothing
but insecurity.
we paint our face and dot our eyes so carefully to reach that so called perfection
but the definition of perfection in most of our hearts put it perfectly: "Perfection is a disease of a nation"
one that we have all caught and seemed to not find a cure. it goes rapidly through our body spreading so fast and clenching on to the brain until it calls all the shots as if we are the robots and it is now the controller.
you see, there is nothing but insecurity.
you might be able to air brush the blemishes and bumps that creep into our skin and sprout so grossly, but,
you cant air brush personality.