Let me nurture you
In such a way
Everyone watching you
Upon your smile
And modest confidence
In your eyes
You don't need
You are beautiful
You just are
Genre: Almost Romantic
Theme: Dope Soul
But yours shouldn’t have to.
The things you say stick to me like a
I’m a vacuum.
I **** up all the things you say
and it just replays.
things you think you have to say
that are better left unsaid.
Too bad you can’t UnSay
the things you said
even though I know
you never would.
it is always the ones we hold closest
that is gifted
with the blueprint
of our defeat?
a way to have us
beaten, broken hearted
on both knees.
How is this honest?
How are we fair?
To be clear,
as you sleep
I sit here and think.
If you had a snore for every tear I’ve shed,
you might never wake up.
Written : 3/4/20
A ghost of a house is a blueprint
A soul of a blueprint is a sketch
A sketch's spirit is in vision
And lemme tell you, your vision's quite a stretch
A guy I know has a tendency to develop things and plan for stuff he has no way of ever accomplishing. This little nugget js written in about 2 minutes.
I am looking for a blueprint for love
the one I've once felt about you.
The perfect blue paper
that helps me figure things out
that tells secrets about a lover's skin and sighs
- the ones I knew as yours.
Now I wish to redraw, then admire its design:
relearn, then follow its patterns
down to my very heart.
I want to rebuild its structure,
recreate the way that is no more,
to have the perfect edition of it;
a guide to my true self,
the one who once knew what it felt like
to be in love with someone like you.
I think harmony is one of those things,
that can only be determined from an internal blueprint.
and this reasoning is extracted,
from beautiful objects and ideas.
an idea formed,
He knows not how the toner trails,
I know how my conduits drain themselves.
Forming a queue while spitting blood
They’re an anemic residue.
He knows not how to freshen my palate,
With warmth, I see no remedy
My so-fatigued heart,
I was a monochrome in plastic wares.
I wasn’t a prototype, but a derivative.
Seclusion I abhor, indeed my life too
— The End —