The music beats loudly, the lights are scintillating, caught in a time lapse, of never ending smiles. And then the next day comes and I sit and I stare and an hour feels like days and the only trace of the night before is the aching feet the throbbing eardrums and the hope that I’ll see you again but not too soon because when I am without I sit quietly alone for centuries when you inevitably disappear.
Breathing here Happens though a green straw Like a lotus rising though the mud Of societies lackluster grandeur Speaking here Best though inherent beauty In metaphors Harder to reach than Everest Walking along The ***** pond Satanic windmills above Rotating in the neon breeze Take a fresh breath of air In the metallic moonlight The only sunlight In this society Is the lotus rising From the artists’ demented dreams The truth will set you free Only in quiet reverie Nothing is, nor has ever been, As it seems
As the evening ticks on I sit and ponder Inside my restless spirit I witness the comings And goings Of all the people Through the pixels of black Scrolling or trolling The ether holds such power Yet it’s substance is weak Usage of color inside words A slip of the keys Portrayal in portraits In lives out of the hives But what is the point Engaging in this parade Do you show off your mask Create those tasks So I wonder again If I’m in the right place Or did I just end up In a new trap for me
Action without validation without comparison by Instagram. Experience not shared not shown to those in the stands. These events have value even when not shared by you. Secret acts are potent so relish these moments without posts.
I can keep it all to myself the things you said to me the things you did it's mine forever it's mine alone the things I wish I did the things I wish I said I should have put a bullet in your pretty little head I can keep it all to myself the things I said to you the things I did the things I thought it's mine forever it's mine alone
Instagram was a graveyard of memories that came to pass until my ex shared a picture of our son on the backseat of his car with their hands touching whoever "he" is I wonder if he knows all the nasty **** you love to do the ****** up thoughts you keep the thoughts that keep you so very far away from me
Now Instagram is a nightmare a collage of everything that makes me sick to breathe it's where my dreams died and reanimated as someone else's and that's ok because in a way they are still mine forever his and mine alone
If we ever touched again that would be our very own cosmic Hiroshima **** up I wonder how many souls we'd stamp out? I wonder how many dreams would die? mine are at the forefront of my mind the dreams I had of us together as the happiest three man band the world has never seen