She can no longer gaze upon the eyes of man and feel an emotion.

She is hurt, yet unscathed.

No longer bound by the mere limitations of 'suaded speech and prominent eyes.

She is burdened yet free.

No more a slave to her appearance for others than she is to her snow-touched beauty nor to the she to which autumn's embrace darkens her to perfection

She is in disbelief, yet trusting.

Hopeful that those that have walked all paths can understand hers without so much as a lie to deceive what reality calls truth.

Moreover, she is all, but one.

She decided to put an end to what is determined as life, still breathing, but now as one, she walks for all....alone.

"If peace be welcomed yet unobtainable by permanence, and chaos unacceptable but inevitable, then let this world be...and it's inhabitants, things. Objects if peaceful, but 'people' if acknowledged by chaos. Humans."-Zachary Neal

I want your book.
I want the pages so effortlessly written.
Day by day.
Week by week.
Hour by hour.
Minute by minute.
Second.
By.
Second.
Down to the last nanosecond, I want your book.

I desire your good times.
The times that brought you the most precious of joys.
The "wow-ing" moments that gave your life some sort of meaning beyond comparison to everyone else because it was unique to you and you alone.
The archive of your greatest achievements to which others looked up to you for guidance, in turn creating the perfect human model for the world.

I need your bad times.
The times that brought you to a point beyond sadness.
Those hectic moments that may have given you some sort of excitement but also took from you something you can never get back without therapy, a friend, or a warm coffee on a rainy day by your most foggiest of windows.
The ones that truly revealed a "you".

And most importantly, I crave your worst times.
Hell hath no fury likened to human frustration, solely birthed by human error.
A tantrum of the greatest quality, if you will.
The "they" that you've killed off, murdered in your mind for pleasure, just to see them writhe.
The world you've betrayed for its falsehood.
...The end you require to transgress countless new "beginnings"

A library, a bookshelf, a volume, a book, the chapter, a paragraph.
Down to the very last sentence or word, ended with a period.

Give. Me. Your. Book......

You aren't you.
You who you are, isn't allowed currently.
You can't be seriously in front of me.
You are just far away.
Don't bother visiting unless you have a stupid guest pass or something, I don't know.
But I do know that you aren't you.
Why?
Because I said so.
Why?
Because I know so, simple as that.
Same clothes, sure.
Same face, fine.
Same intellect?
Questionable.
Very questionable.
Don't you understand your falacy yet?
You aren't you.
That's like...against the code or something, I'm sure.
...........
You aren't you, okay?
You just aren't.
I miss you, the real you.
Go home and try again
I love you, you know this everywhere boy does, but...
Go look at that picture again, you forgot your oersonality.

Sweet, tender love and care,
Shall make a woman tell and share,
Show her kindness, truth and strength,
And she will show true skin so fair.
Surrendering her garments rare,
But leaks the mind more to take you there.
Her whim for you, reveal your length,
Your story and journey, a complex pair.

Immerse her thoughts, make known your feat.
Take heed her face, as two worlds meet.
Aesthetics, kinetics, both motions flow.
Make tame your vision, control this beat.
There is no patience here, it may take a seat.
As active as you are, and to her, it shall greet.
Rest all inhibitions, all fears must go,
By force or by choice, have mutual heat.

Albeit regressed, have urge to rise,
Give all without none, truth held in your eyes.
Steer driven ideas, force trusted to heart.
Processes ablaze, this function is wise.
Both stressor collide, solved with loosened ties,
She shall see demeanor, it's will to advise,
And emotions revealing her true art.
Full spread, no ends, according to size~

...Eager for knowledge...let her have more