Outside approval is ten times more common, twenty less important, and thirty more strived for
The ****** of everyone talk and talk and talk and say little to nothing.
Ideas after idea after thought is thought inescapable, different, a singular miracle
How unique am I, the harlot giggles, but inwardly, outwardly he is coolly solemn,
How clever for that, he says
And ****** by the ones who shift the glass
And turn off the fluorescence of compassion, he is unchanged, untouched, unbothered.
It’s the careless who care about the less of caring-ness,
And lost are the ones with the maps etched on their palms by benevolence,
And cold are the ones who say what they must to avoid what they should, and what they say is silence.
And what the ones who know cry for is forgiveness,
For the misstep, for the crushing blows they intend to land
On the faces of those who think that the brilliant room will make them glow,
Those sick q-tip figured devices
Who ravage the lighting, the upward slipping, causeless miracles,
Those ‘flightless’ birds, with no song, who soar for themselves out of caring eyes,
And past. Applause to the harlequin-assumed,
Who prance on in beautiful spectacle, laughed at; gluttonous and thick,
Forgive me.
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 9:39 PM UTC
Outside approval is ten times more common, twenty less important, and thirty more strived for
The ****** of everyone talk and talk and talk and say little to nothing.
Ideas after idea after thought is thought inescapable, different, a singular miracle
How unique am I, the harlot giggles, but inwardly, outwardly he is coolly solemn,
How clever for that, he says
And ****** by the ones who shift the glass
And turn off the fluorescence of compassion, he is unchanged, untouched, unbothered.
It’s the careless who care about the less of caring-ness,
And lost are the ones with the maps etched on their palms by benevolence,
And cold are the ones who say what they must to avoid what they should, and what they say is silence.
And what the ones who know cry for is forgiveness,
For the misstep, for the crushing blows they intend to land
On the faces of those who think that the brilliant room will make them glow,
Those sick q-tip figured devices
Who ravage the lighting, the upward slipping, causeless miracles,
Those ‘flightless’ birds, with no song, who soar for themselves out of caring eyes,
And past. Applause to the harlequin-assumed,
Who prance on in beautiful spectacle, laughed at; gluttonous and thick,
Forgive me.
