The urge for what's next
Has blinded you what's already there!
Don't you realize
All the way in you're dead!
This impractical imbecile you've become
Nothing seems right
To what's already been done!

Seems like you've stopped thinking over.
May not be able to put in words
On how you feel,
but all I know is
we cling to memories of what we had
not blindly seeking on everything
to what's about to come!

What do I do to prove my worth and show my love for you?

I might ride a mighty raging steed to defend my maiden’s honor.
I could.
Well, maybe not. I’m very bad with horses.
I’d just fall off and bust my ***.
It would be a bit absurd.

I could pick you every daisy, rose, and mum; every flower in the world.
I could.
And make a huge bouquet.
But that would make you sneeze, I think
and no one else has flowers.

I could bring you down the moon and stars from their home up in the sky.
I could.
But where the hell would you possibly put them.
Your closet can’t have near the room,
and it’ll cause havoc in the tides.

I could give you the beating heart from my chest to prove my endless love.
I could.
For truth, no—I don’t think I could.
I kinda need it now to live and,
well, frankly that’s really rather gross. I mean…yuck.

How do I prove my love for you and convince you of my worth?

I hold your hand.
I hear your voice.
I kiss your lips.
I give you all my time.
For such a love as you
I could.

He has little sense of sorrow,
He thinks of fond tomorrows.
He’s a fabulist, a dreamer.
Not quite a true schemer
That would be too hard.
More like a half-awake bard
Making up poetic outcomes
For a reality that never comes.
Mostly he’s a ***.

He’s a moonbeamer,
Sliding down colorless rainbows
That he paints himself daily
Proclaiming about how gaily
The emptiness of his canvas
Has so sadly missed us
And somehow we are to blame
For not managing to be the same
As he is by appreciating
That which is not there.
He has daydreams to spare.

He shares his hopeful possibilities
That are not always practicalities
Made of unborn actualities
And fanciful surrealities
Painted over his shortcomings
Hoping nobody will see them
And talk too badly against them
Ahem-ing and coughing phlegm
When he orates and pontificates
On his latest boilerplate stories
Of his imagined future glories.
Lost in his own thought stream,
He’s a totally hopeless dreamer.

The sweet taste of hope
The spicy taste of thrill
The bitter taste of reject
The sour taste of neglect

You learn to love the taste of bile
Everything comes up
But you keep it in
Everytime. The pain almost hurts more

Swallow.
Swallow
Swallow.
You learn to hate the taste of blood

Tongue in pieces
Soul is shattered
You can't find the words for how
empty & small
You've always felt inside

So you shape. The physical
To become the emotional

Maybe you'll find the words if you can visualize

Maybe if I see
I can understand
why
I feel so
Impractical & Frail
inside