It's so hard to listen to a person you are undermining;
Even if that person is sacrificing a lot to make sense,
Love and commitments don't have to be this complicated,
You are build up with so much ego and pride,
You see no value in them ,
You  prefer your opinions to theirs,
You are a control freak,

It's so hard to listen to a person you are undermining,

Now you are  all alone and feeble,
Full of regrets , pain and sadness,
Wishing you could reverse everything but you are powerless,
Years have  passed and not even a fragment of them,
You are scared of death,
Stuck with "what ifs"
What if nobody comes to your funeral?
What if you end up rotting in your own stinking house?
What if...

Your eyes twinkle differently.
They don’t reflect the yellow from the sunflowers nearby
but they seem to adore the tumultuous grey storm on the other side
who knew one so mellow could suddenly harden
maybe it hardened so it didn’t crumble -

but you didn’t realise the nature that surrounded you
a fresh breeze blew over the calm lake
green trees swung beside to provide you with shade
flowers grew alongside, and handed you their delicate seeds
they knew you would care for them even after they grew to become trees -

But you fell in love with the storm.

You became the ocean - almighty powerful, vast and destructive
yet so alone
no one ever saw you
except for bare, faceless rocks
or people who died taking their last hop
you comforted life in your darkest depths
but it never saw the sky above you
and only ever mastered hiding in the comfort of the blue

you didn’t protect the seeds of the flower anymore
those trees were too far away to shade you
the calm breeze was replaced by a violent gale
one that was too quick to move you

you may have progressed into the calm sea that is enjoyed
or you may remain the storm
but the salty sea will never be able to bring back
the sweetness that is gone.

Extended my half
Of the olive branch, and you,
Took it in your flight

i have everything i could have ever wanted..

so why won’t this aching feeling go away?
why do i still drag my feet along?

when the bridge i am walking on is made of solid gold?

ℜ𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢
𝔖𝔱𝔦𝔠𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔪𝔰
𝔄 𝔤𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔟
𝔒𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔬𝔱𝔱𝔬𝔪 𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔣
𝔒𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔯𝔦𝔡𝔤𝔢
ℑ𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔢 𝔴𝔢 𝔰𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔢'𝔡 𝔡𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔨
𝔈𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔨𝔢𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔉𝔢𝔟𝔯𝔲𝔞𝔯𝔶
ℭ𝔶𝔫𝔦𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔶 𝔞𝔴𝔞𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔭𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫