I don’t know what this love means
I don’t know if it was meant to be in our genes.
I don’t know if it is because we’re both teens.
I don’t know if I am prone to act as a machine.
I don’t know if this is meant to be part of my routine.
I don’t know if this is the girl of my dreams
I don’t know what this love means.
A story after my Ex kind of chewed me out, I remember vividly her holding grudges against me while I was forgiving. And how I began to for the first time during our relationship question it's legitimacy. IDK, hindsight's a real ******* huh?
**** and disappointing colors are what they're revealing
It's a challenge not to fall victim to the deceptive deceiving
This world in which all are tirelessly scheming
Corrupt messages intended to disillusion our modes of sensory
The laws of this dishonesty are rarely discriminant
The unlimited reach of the effects are constantly consistent
Putting current views and outlooks in legitimate jeopardy
Originality is one thing they've made a hobby of stealing
Dark, ***** secrets require intelligent attempts at concealing
This society in which all are tirelessly scheming
Naivity is an automatic assumption of all that is innocent
You can witness their successes expending minimal energy
The fraud is hazardous; failure is certainly imminent
One would desire that outcome sooner than later, as it leaves recipients feeling elderly
With any form of luck, more will come to share this sentiment
Endless efforts put toward developing façades generally appealing
Aiming to have candor and valor on the knees, kneeling
This reality in which all are tirelessly scheming
Sturdy quilts to shield clarity are woven most expertly
Time being tested passed slowly- increment by minute increment
Blueprints to fool the majority will be, expectedly, intricate
What was the original reality has been altered into a distant, doubted memory
Any and all accomplished legitimitacy sends them all reeling
There's always a "crisis" with which we should be dealing
*Our universe in which all are tirelessly scheming
I've been imagining a niche of people who take me seriously as a writer. People who see some beauty and legitimacy in the way I float through paychecks, late on rent and holding my breath as I sink in independence. I see the waterlogged corpse of an old man in the mirror, sunken in and sullen, melting like wax off a candle.
I thought these were just waves of depression, but I feel an entire ocean lurks and churns inside me, begging to pour out.
My ribs are bending under the pressure, my lungs are folded flat against my chest, my breath is short and cold.
Thoughts are the moon that stirs the tide.
And I carry this weight on a foundation of ******* sticks.
I'm sorry if I came on too hard, or came off too melodramatic.
Although honestly I'm sorry for too much, far too apologetic to be a legitimate writer anymore.
— The End —