"differentiating" poems
porch talk, simmering in a Bud light sauce
everyone chair-rocking, even the boxer dog,
in his self-propelled 360 degree swiveling chair
eavesdropping and spy eyeballing the farm for
strangers and any creatures as of yet, unsmelled
get done with weather, the crops,
the neighbors,
the weird, and the truly neighborly,
grandkids escapades, hopes and desires, comparative literature and regional dialects and philosophical dialecticals tickling,
bs’ing and tall tale telling, breathing the windy geography of the air over the land that dictates the how we live,
open another Bud for the buds,
did I forget to mention
farm equipment?
skirt politics cause nobody wants any
nothing-to-be-done-damn-aggravation,
leaves nothing mo’ to ramble on about ‘cept the
absent women
no worries all above board no secrets uncouthed,
but the mood softens as the pale daylight wisps come rarer
as now
nearer to nine pm, obvious saved the best for last,
a very manly-way of ordering things,
big silent pauses in the converso conversation,
guy-sighs many,
as the last essay of the day is being jointly authored,
denotating the generalized listings of
how they drive us crazy,
listing the repetition of ever changing instructions,
which doesn't recognize bi-coastal mannerisms, non-differentiating
just humanism-isms
and the peculiarities of each (a list kept)
in a compare and contrast,
an end of the day summation,
and the boasting-outbesting,
of each of their
specialisms
which is sadly now forgotten and which haven’t been
brain-recorded so cannot be disclosed
other than it’s now ten
and all that’s left is
to sleep, perchance, to dream,
of private things
and bigger and better
John Deere tractors
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 2:13 PM UTC
.simone biles (the gymnast)...
miles davis (the trumpet guy)...
must be black privilege;
wasn't there a movie...
starring
woody harrelson
and wesley snipes?
you sure?
i thought it was
called: white men can't jump...
sure as **** ****** can
sing church gospel!
how's that for
privilege?
if you're going to
culturally box, and repeatedly
punch below the belt...
you're quiet likely going
to get a reaction...
i have an acne wart growing
on my *** the size
of a cauliflower,
it's itchy my brain,
it's differentiating between
agitate and: lying back...
i guess the excess of...
look... you may have
the excess melanin...
i have lactose tolerance...
we're even?!
no?
so how come some smurf,
some European hobbit
shackle your N.B.A.
Goliath(s)?!
explain that one to me...
if these people were so
cock-unsure...
how they **** did they
tame the Zulu Apache Goliath
bodybuilders?!
what the ****
i already said, and it was proven...
IQ...
i don't like it...
but i'm pretty sure that
the whites **** more people
in terrorist attacks than...
camel-jockeys...
it took 3 or over three...
to perform the Bataclan Massacre...
three... the third of the IQ
that required a Breivik...
130 in France...
dissociated among 3 attackers
that gorged on testicles after the spree...
fun, fun fun fun...
like: you're trying to say that without
irony...
and how many in Norway?
77...
i only look at the IQ of killers...
so... what's the ratio?
77 / 1
130 / 3 = 43...
like i said... low IQ...
you really want your little
racial insurrection?
you'll have it, don't worry..
i'll just the narrative...
must be black privy...
if you can mash up a jazz compos.,
right?
crackers read from
a prepared script...
you ******* just, "improvise"...
rapping contra talking...
**** come to think of it...
******* boys took it too far from
your Oreos...
like... too much drums...
not enough wind, or strings...
too much drumming...
pulverizing the ears
with drum & bass and what not...
if i wasn't deaf prior,
i'm deaf by now;
******* boy to Oreo woo-oo-oops
boy;
same **** different cover.
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 9:42 PM UTC
Girl, do you want a bad boy?
Warning:
if you can't handle the heat,
get off the stove.
Know them:
Bad boys are bad
not there to put up some suave show
they do bad stuff with ill intentions
not just some petty mean stuff.
Identify them:
They may not even look like one
cue the handsome look
they may even act like angels
it's really hard
differentiating them
from their goody two shoes counterpart.
How i find one when there's no archetypal look??
Game plan and execution:
1. Do something to blend in,
not asking you to dabble in crime.
2. Make them feel at ease with you
If you're hot, you can opt to skip to step 2. You can be rest assured you won't blend in like the normal plebeians.
So open your eyes wide
you might strike the lottery!
if you're (un)lucky you may score one
*real bad ***
Good luck in your pursuit.
P.S: They are not a species near extinction.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
Oh, you seed of mankind.
You who reside in the same Coloured white *****
You carry the sex-determining chromosome.
Before union with female egg, human colour was same.
After fertilization, emerged different coloured humans.
Oh melanin, you who determine our skin colour.
You went as far as differentiating our hair colour.
What have you done?
Are you to blame for racial discrimination?
Maybe blame theory of evolution.
Oh no I blame you mankind.
God gave men brains of a kind.
The kind, that knows wrong from right.
In the image of God, mankind was created.
Colour was not restricted.
I urge mankind across all racial groups.
A plead to all *** groups.
There’s more to what you see in the mirror.
It was microscopically a seed within white *****
We might differ racially, men and women.
We came from same coloured seed.
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 5:17 PM UTC
I can't decide if earthquakes are caused by shifting rocks
Or if they are the result of the growing faultlines on my palms.
If the quake I feel is from jolts of energy formed due to the earth's crusts rubbing against each other
Or if the quakes are caused by the friction between my palms and my face
Perhaps earthquakes have nothing to do with the fact you left dragging your suitcase behind you
And perhaps it has no correlation with the rubber soles of my shoes and the cobblestone ground
Maybe earthquakes are screams of, "THIS IS TOO MUCH."
Maybe earthquakes are millions tremors whispering, "I can't take much more of this."
I've been struggling with differentiating equations involving inner shaking and outer breakdowns
But I have come to a conclusion that the probability of earthquakes existing within me is fairly close to one
And that the probability of earthquakes being caused by your hurt is possibly closer to one
Most days earthquakes begin from within -
The place where your hands used to cradle my heart is cold
And the ice is travelling from my arteries to my fingernails
Other days, earthquakes stem from the screams of the masses -
"You don't matter," they say, even though I am very much aware
That a flick of my finger could cause the collapse of a tower worlds away
I can hardly comprehend how sudden releases of pain can cause a rift in time and space
And sometimes earthquakes are the seizures that could keep someone alive and **** them at the same time.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 2:55 PM UTC
i love the fact that most people
rather enter the concept
of karma rather dialectics
to argue their point - makes
emily austen seem like a nutcracker
of ideas to come from
ikea as the self-assembled semi-detached
heights, otherwise known as wuthering, heights
or the disco-ball done in mahoganny eyed splinter
shine - sheens the spot!
it's just so ****** blocked nose rotten,
the opposite of polite society,
a bit like the middle-ages... reigning
paranoia imported from a lost colony,
library cards of blue indian peasants
turned into pheasants that did the cancan dance
all of a sudden... miracles christ couldn't even forsee!
i'm free every saturday if you're hashtag up-for-it...
never mind... i'll leave my quote and oil my phone-number
for a missing mobile telepathic nuance on
when differentiating blue indians with garam masala
and red indians with mohawks - easiest game of all:
snakes & ladders, noughts & crosses... garam masala & mohawks.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 8:26 PM UTC
muse,
*she/her has no master, only a mastery;
she, comes compulsing, a physical pounding,
a throbbing impervious resistant to logic or medicine,
which is the so very ever, the peculiar throbbing
of a principled particular “present participle,”*
*write of compulsing is her mocking suggestion.*
*a presence, punishing urging, pas de choix, obey,
submission; write freely but not free, compose or
decompose; is there a difference, no, not, and so ordered,
demand surrendered, how? how? this taking and giving,
can a single act dichotomy be so fulfilling and so emptying?*
<>
wake daily to water canvas, the waves, dabs of paint
protruding, irritating. provoking yet presented silenced,
repetitiously calming, motioned framed within the
white edged sand, the bound-surround of the living painting.
eyes alight, eyes delight, this daily emergence unto
a tapestry devoid of human interference suggests
a differentiating reality; now I understand the how of a
world’s imperfections constituting, tooting its own perfectionism.
this is not lake water; no single flat stone skipping nor
a concentric rippling to a slow death; this is seaward-
bound, an oceans subservient tributary, contributory,
a river, bay, sound - precursors to a vast atlantic infinity.
this is metaphor; this a still life of the perpetuation metamorphosis.
<>
*the muse exhales; as do I subsequently; what difference?
none, she replies to herself, tween painting artist and
verbalizing poet, the un-still life creation, always, always,
different, the essence of diversity in a singularity sameness*
7:13 AM Thu Jul 29
2021
S. I. Sound
Jul 29, 2021
Jul 29, 2021 at 7:59 AM UTC
for SJR
who lets me borrow his voices, a good man, asks for nothing in return
and therefore, is given all I got...
~~
“She's as sweet as tupelo honey
She's an angel of the first degree
She's as sweet as tupelo honey
Just like the honey, baby, from the bee
She's my baby, you know she's alright.....“
Van Morrison
~~~~~~<<<<<>>>>>~~~~~~~~~
*old folk listen to old folk
and rock,
stung and sprung
from Pandora's box
someday
maybe,
you'll understand,
certain phrases,
from certain phases,
first tasted at a flavored oxygen bar
where youth drank,
worshipped and adored
and when those certain
word combinations reenter,
slipping in from unawares,
recalling easy the first time
you tasted with your ears,
Tupelo Honey
but what you remember is
that differentiating phrase
and
what you believed,
what you needed,
why you existed,
all because there was a new knowing*,
that
an angel of the first degree,
was out there waiting for you...
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
Cosplay Human
the art or practice of wearing costumes to portray characters from fiction, especially from manga, animation, and science fiction; a skit featuring these costumed characters
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
this cosplay of human we so oft effect,
movie projection of shaped variations,
semi-firm but mostly pliant,
bone not-so-hard-as-we-believe,
draped in skins of tissue pre-perforated,
we are forms that can last a century,
yet shrivel back to fetus in days,
for lack of simple water...
think human and know simultaneous,
billions of earth persona and
billions of cells in each
*by for of -
the people,*
each masked, each outfitted
in uniforms of differentiating gaps
more alike, all unique,
masses of differences of constructs same,
this cosplay is a preeminent miracle...
all of us
nakedly similar,
all naturally defiant of time,
all defeated by time, naturally...
this skit we play routinely,
costumed in a manner similar,
yet different, to distinguish ourselves,
and mark as group members
pretending to
vive la différence!
what import all this, pretty words
that tell us what we know instinctively?
just this...
I see you
perhaps you see me
changing my costume
not by choice,
still do not wear a
masque
my cells my words,
no cosplay,
my humanity on parade,
my file open to inspection
dare you visit the beginning,
when passion drove me,
the early version,
when I was not circumspect,
and my poems
were passion plays,
verifiable truths
and cosplay was not
part of my vocabulary
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
the Internet sets
higher aspirations
a teaching guide,
on how to
go beyond and deep into
the fast lane's curved and wide,
stretching
the straight and narrow
longer than lasting,
lasting no longer than
memory feelings
blurred overlapping burnt edged video recordings
pores pour oil and noise,
differentiating little between
beginning ending continuous
in the mind, from the walls,
Santana Rob sings "Smooth,"
but it is
the guitar wailing controlled penetrations.
a national anthem
of driven perpetual needy fomenting
outspoken physical truths
you don't care how you
got there,
where you are,
anybody's name,
high octane high performance
*** today,
is not for
the shy and the retiring, sissies,
we all got the necessary expertise,
with violin accompanist of pharma teaching aids
recalling first time tumblings,
exhaling
deep down throated rumblings,
rushing
fumbling ********* an ****** innocence
rushes of surprise and discovery,
success of feeling successful,
the shame of miscommunications
think I'm gonna watch me
a romantic comedy,
write her a love poem,
come up from behind,
caress her *******
kidding kissing her ear lobes,
then entering her entry point,
her neck
even when she is
armed
but forgiving,
busy chopping dinner's vegetables,
make them make them
give up the hidden
soft atonal squealing
like a
piccolo on steroids,
high pitch teasing,
pinched by air ****** intaking
I'll play the bass,
hitting those low notes,
********* my own strings,
deep ooh's and aah's
diode emitting,
the drug employed
is unadulterated
wanton but wanted
desire
this won't be the poem of the day,
no mind,
it already is was and
will be...
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 7:27 AM UTC
Where do I begin.
It's been so long since I've been so close to the end that I could smell the earth around me.
I think I've been playing both sides of the field so long that I can't differentiate between a graveyard shift,
and a cold dead sunrise. But I wouldn't know the difference between differentiating and diffusing dreaming
Dead dawn rises opening up this world
Dead dusk down on a twitch throe, circling the fence around my collapsing line of vision
Sorrow and *** the two things I like best that I want less of the more that I get.
If I could go back...I would have kissed you on the river. I would have shown you with tenderness, what it is like for your life here on this world to be wanted. I would have given you what love feels like beyond the shade of fear of loss, the ultimate gift I would keep on giving. And then I would've stricken you with my oar until your beautiful body no longer broke surface intentionally. It would have been the gentleman's way of settling things. Instead I chose the dreamer's.
I've been in camouflage, hiding well from you. hoping to escape within the community of a seemingly functional
system.
Found it hard to keep my cool when utterance of a simple name or phrase could throw me into breathing lasps,
When the sight of a single stone upon the ground could be a city in the sky, my last gasps are playing and
rewinding and then playing, and rewinding, and then playing, and rewinding and then playing, and rewinding and I'm laying down the sheets upon the floor, because the bed reminds me too much of the perfect story memory I'm
alone. In a
building. In a
desert. In a
deadlocked staring contest between me
and my reflection in the moonlit water memories that make up all I am were was are is will ever ******* be
If you can't escape in a ******* dream then where the **** else am I gonna go?
I've wasted my life, observing, becoming less a part of all the things I spend time looking at.
Removing myself from the final edit. Hoping somehow,
That total abstinence,
From your world,
And my worldly desires,
Will
somehow
put Me in
CONTROL.
Love is about control for you. I believe in you.
I don't know if I believe in control.
It doesn't matter if I believe in love.
Someone please just see the justification for anything I do. I am begging for a partner. I have no one to observe
me.
If I seem hellbent, please...I am merely driven by demons to an end I would have no means to reach if I was...
left alone...
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 5:41 AM UTC
Silence is needed .
Silence is a massive part of your brainstorming session .
Let it be your studies , your workspace , your next project session or about your love .
And by love I didn't mean it to be a human being only .
Love is a strong possession , which can be about your newly bought Fountain pen or can be about your new social innovation .
But silence is needed , for making you stronger and your presence to be valuable .
Silence should be there as pure bliss , to give you a thought of match making .
Do you remember , how much you inhaled with silence and those breezy nights ?
Just cherish once about them and think where you were before some days and where are you now ; standing all alone and strong challenging all the facets of truth and society .
Yes , silence is needed .
Chaos can't always bring you to the path where you desired to end up with .
Silence doesn't make you socially introvert . It gives you the space for differentiating between you and what you will be .
Ask one poet or a writer or any person who loves to think at the end of the day , 'what is silence for them ? How much does it matter to them?'
Then come back to me and say again .... " I hate silence."
Silence is subjective . It is needed , but not always . And that also doesn't signify chaos should occupy the space .
Silence is needed to make space in those beautified chaotic nature .
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
your first love is expecting
and I know it is not yours, because that one already
fell out of me.
I have problems differentiating
between what is something and what is nothing, but in my head,
it is a city now – there was no other place
large enough
to hold its beauty. like my empathy, my *******
conscience,
the guilt I take on of other people's sins
none of it ever leaked out from my skin. only dead cells,
I plead to do something for me –
if you must breathe
for another woman, as he did, become bigger
than a town
and make her feel everyone's pain too.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
My view of the miracles and wonders which comprise the distant surface vary from your view
Misleading landscapes that at a distance look like tiny paths when in actuality are cavernous ravines
Things of beauty are often not so pleasant up close; well-populated areas appear remote
Trampled areas seemingly untouched; desolate grounds invisible to their true hopeless form
The most simplistic of areas majestic in reality
Quadrants are less traveled due to their vertically challenging terrains
The most intimidating adversary disheartens the courage, within the pure, to explore
Our worlds are polar opposites
Yet we both find common ground from differentiating views
One challenged by the wind in their face
The other is rushed along with a bellowing blow
The appearance of a storm trapped amongst Mother Nature’s forest can be beauty in one eye
The strength of unpredictability can instill fear in the other
Soon the storm passes and I am relieved the worst has passed
You taking the same breath are saddened that the display has left us
March 9, 2012
Mar 10, 2012
Mar 10, 2012 at 12:30 AM UTC
There are some questions reserved
A few doubts preserved
In my actions
In my words
In my mind
My pen I find
scribbles all that is in my pretty little mind
Old days, I to myself do remind
The 'time machine' as I rewind
Yes I do write
without elements of bias & fright
Yes I do write
differentiating between the wrong & right
Yes I do write
with all fun and sheer delight
Yes I do write
my expressions that may be wrong or right
Yes I do write
What I have seen
The places where I have been
My pen my lucky charm
My diary kept me away from evils & harm
In fact I grew up in their arm .
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
Do I truly see myself through my own?
I wonder what it would be like to be in someone else's mind
Do their thoughts race around one hundred miles like mine?
Am I abnormal, witty, or even a bit divine?
Differentiating the world, is a habit I hold.
Under my hazel eyes, and my hair like frizzy gold
that is where it lies,
the storage of my abstract mind.
May 29, 2011
May 29, 2011 at 12:59 PM UTC
The base of everything is black
And behind my eyelids.
Splashes of exotic colors
Explosions like firecrackers.
I know everything
I am everything
And everything knows me
And everything is me.
Whirring lines of transfiguration
Not tangible images
But the core of each thing
It's essence.
No bodies.
No thoughts.
No ideas.
Just knowing
And being.
Each depth I understand
And beyond that depth, I understand
And going down deeper, I still understand.
And it's endless
Like an abyss
Except less black
And more yes, yes, yes.
Sounds are accents to colors
But not necessary
For everything is connected
So everything knows
And to what are words?
Nothing but nothing
There are no words here...
When everything knows
And is, everything.
Lights, lots of lights
Coinciding with color
And creating sound
With it's slap of bright
And splatter of life.
There are more colors than I remember
When my body was mine.
There are sounds I think exist
But I could never hear them before.
Rumbling, rolling.
There are lights so bright I can see souls
Even though I all ready knew they were there.
Free-falling
And floating at the same time
While being rooted
To everything.
There's a buzzing over the flesh of the universe
Ripple-like effects of wavey buzzes
Touching each thing.
And I feel it all in my center
And it's on fire
But so wet.
And it spreads out in a beat like a heart; all over me
Because I am everything.
No shapes and sizes
No differentiating from each thing
The lines are blurred
The edges blending together
Everything is one
But still each thing individually connected.
I understand
And I take this understanding back with me
When I melt back into my fingers and toes
And join the worldy world
With a universe of understanding.
Jan 24, 2011
Jan 24, 2011 at 1:00 PM UTC
the english don't know how to drink *****
sorry...
they don't...
by the way?
the english artifact of saying sorry?
it doesn't actually mean an apology...
the apology always comes too late...
but english nightclubs?
the english? they don't know how to
serve *****
***** is never served on ice...
i'm losing followers? am i?
good...
i like my self-imposed
censorship...
i like weeding out the soft pockets...
of people with weak
stomachs...
for all the celebration of Darwinism?
peer into my eyes...
if you really want to serve *****
***** isn't whiskey isn't
red wine, served at room temp. being
allowed airing...
mind you... funny fact...
six cloves of garlic dumped into
a bottle of red wine, matured for 2 weeks...
3 x 25ml of the wine...
apparently curbs your appetite...
don't ask me whether that's inclusive
of a placebo effect...
but when you're drinking
***** proper?
you don't add ice...
and keep it at room temp.,
you freeze it...
to below -10°C...
vodka isn't whiskey!
i know what warm **** tastes like,
i once fused red wine,
and, having ****** into the holy grail,
and subsequently drank the concoction...
come to think of it...
******* the Vatican colored flag of
extraction into a sacrament?
you need ***** to be served below
the freezing point of water,
given that, 0°C is a baron of quality
differentiating water from *****
alcohol evaporates at around
70+°C...
p.s. interlude:
i was never fond of the imperial rubric
of Fahrenheit and ounces, pounds,
miles, inches...
and all that quirky "genius" of
measurements...
mathematically?
i'm aligned with French...
but you don't serve *****
at room temp. with ice cubes
and a mixer...
given that ***** has a lower
boiling point,
you serve it under the "niqab" of
waster becoming ice...
so you serve it...
as something, equivalent of
gomme syrup...
you drink ***** that appears
syrupy...
like any single malt
puritan when it comes to whiskey?
there are ***** puritans out there...
you don't drink ***** lukewarm,
or slightly chilled...
you drink it at a temp. of
a gomme syrup...
liquid -20°C...
thick...
with all the alcohol poisoning
bacterium dead...
appearing
excessively sugary,
but not really...
night clubs that serve
***** not stashed in refrigerators
like butcher's meat?
don't drink the *****
in those places...
if it doesn't have the smoothness
of a gomme syrup?
sliding down your throat
like a mollusk on amphetamines?
the epitome:
***** and orange juice?!
you ******** me or opening
a ******* parachute while
stranded to the the ******* ground?
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 8:00 PM UTC
one more for five year old Ian
he is the little boy, on an
I-don't-want-to-go road trip,
yet inside happily,
pretense outward poutingly,
yet he is nosed pressed straining onto window,
so hard, it's window marked, stain leaving,
absorbing, being absorbed by the fresh
flowing of air currents of new scenery
little boys of beauty,
of beauty,
what do they know?
life is action figures,
videos and toons,
colors vivid but manufactured,
daddy hanging them upside down,
coloring books less than quaint,
few museums bid then enter...
how do they learn what needs
remembering, celebrating...
differentiating tween mundane profane and profound...
some say there are pleasure chems,
the brain releases when the
San Fran sun contacts all flesh,
when California coast surf
beckons claiming splashing
and attention demanding,
when nature offers up
mountain trails that insist
one of any age climb her offerings,
to make them "ours,"
if ever so briefly,.
to be map marked upon
cerebral tissues and
leave the boy and the vistas
neurally connected perpetually
of these matters, I,
no certainty possess,
though I well recall
my nose in that windowed position,
the clarity of Atlantic Rockaway
fresh salt breezes
entering, being stored inside
my five year old brain cloud,
so it could be true
what all the grandmothers
claim!
but this know with soul surety,
there are few things
more beautiful
than a five year old boy,
inhaling the passing scenery,
redding his cheeks even more rosy...
he, a painting, forever stored,
summonable with a single blink
of my mind's eye,
perhaps this is how
he will indeed learn too...
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
“Looking back, I’m ashamed of what I was
I’m different now, though not without flaws
Each crest becomes a trough, as we move on
God slowly steers soul towards a new dawn”
I was a dusty carpet always ignoring abuse, it was being piled
never differentiating between a real friend and an opportunist
I always made sure I gave others more then I gave myself,
my heart was always a blood bath and my soul hurt like hell
At the age of thirty six I began my journey with a therapist
who found the little girl in me and helped her rise again
Locked inside a suitcase at six, the world to me was closed
I started living again, this time I became my own best friend
I learned to say no when I meant no and yes when I meant yes
there were adjustments along the way, with family and friends
but sooner or later they came to realize I had seen a new dawn
and I wasn't going to be used as a runner for their ***** feet
God slowly steered my heart towards a wholesome love of self,
after freeing my soul I embraced the fire and began living again.
Copyright © Mystic Rose |2024
Sep 14, 2024
Sep 14, 2024 at 7:07 AM UTC
This constant pleasurable need that which I seek in my heart is only drifting, fading away.
Eternity is no longer forever.
I am immortal to your insignificant needs.
Differentiating my thoughts from my heart,
not only to protect thy one
but to hold consistency over what I think to be.. Everlasting darkness.
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 1:07 PM UTC
all of my attention is wasted differentiating
fact versus fiction
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 4:32 PM UTC
Why the **** did you have to call?
I was doing so well then you had to go and bring up those sweet summer memories.
Its been a while since we spoke and I thought I'd never hear from you again.
I guess that was just wishful thinking.
Each day I grew stronger but since Thursday I've been letting my weaknesses show.
Its nothing I can't get through, just subtle lapses in differentiating between a broken heart and a cluttered head.
I know it in my soul that we can't ever be the same again even if I did give you a second chance.
It was never easy but things were looking up.
Now I'm back on that rocky road with you, worrying if I'm making the right choice in closing communication pathways or if I'm losing something great.
At the end of the day you can blame it on the distance but we both know its your fault things are the way they are.
I live in love, loving hard when there's love to be had.
I guess it was just too much for you to bear.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC