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But do you not realize how  
Littered
You are, with so much  
Time–              

               Still,  
You choose to waste it

Yet time will always lick
Our wounds
Given the time, for us to heal

               We are
           Time's litter.
On tippy toes, dancing with the Devil; the tipsy ballerina – tattooed
her dreams underneath a piece of Silk. And there's a lace upon my
window eyes, to see through her pain; she seems so brainwashed,
and in such a daze – as rain fell on her hair.

Her skin was once so fair, nowadays it seems to be paying a fare, for
all those potholes up the road to her smile. I splashed in the puddles
of a few wet kisses – speaking less, but hearing a lot of, “all men are
just the same,” as for me, society’s standard of beauty all looks, and
tastes the same.

I held you, kissed you – lending out a lens, to blind my eyes from
seeing your ugly friends. Those you hate in secret; telling me how
MUCH you hate them, and my hate for them, must ALSO be good
at playing pretend.

As you pout your mouth – talking about how much I should bank
on your heart – is that the reason you keep an account on all the
things I've done wrong, to make me lose interest in our love?

Love can feel like it’s around the corner; too busy playing on these
streets, in the present tense – hoping to receive our gifts. But when
love has run its course, it’s a static image of joy; the two are just GIFs.
As for Youthful romance
It's just like foolish Affairs –
Impulsive decisions, Fleeting emotions.

And if foolish Affairs of Youth serve
A purpose; it Serves as a simple Message:

All young Love, is DUMB love;
Until you Eventually find the ONE.
Screen testing, screen testing – I start my days wondering how I’m
supposed to play the role to my life. I have a TV screen for my past,
to better watch my back. Most days I’m too caught up on channelling
my fears, for whatever reward I believe – they'll never pay me back;
they're just all looking for payback.

My overthinking sometimes, works overtime – trying to be a good
figure; putting words into action, to be an action figure. How would
you figure, that out of the bunch of men, you could stand out of the
rest?

And wouldn’t it be funny if the woman of my dreams told me, "you
need to rest" – only taking her advice, if she's the better dream out of
the rest.

For not all men can swallow their pride; others survived gallons –
but in short, a man would do it for the right gal. You tell him, "you'll
never get that girl," his pride starts to see a challenge. A greater pride,
chases tale to make it a talent – that man seems challenged!

Every day is a just balance of challenge – wealth we scavenge, our
dreams live as memory stores; we store up what we value the most.
We look at tomorrow for what's in store; born out of love just for most
of us to go and create war.

Speaking highly of yourself, often speaking down on someone else–
speaking life into a child's life, speaking ill on them when you grow
so sick of them. In the end, we are just words.
Yeah... I’ll be the reflection of one’s depression – to hotspot their
emotions, for the ones that lack real expression. I am a weapon by
the impression of my pen; I demand love and attention – so ****
possessive; these words are my greatest possession.

My mind… my mind is just a book, and I feel so overbooked.
And the dreams in my eyes are overlooked, while I dream about
my death knowing it’s never too good. But we feel so misunderstood
hoping not to leave pieces of ourselves. Life dares to cut me down
like a tree, and sometimes I wish it would.

I’m two doors swinging in the milestones of a lonely road. I threw
my rocks at my reflections – their irregular metre, is such an ugly
ode. Still if I reflect other's depression; I’ll transport it around the
globe, and carry their load.

I am their depression to be showed. Yeah, we're depressed, but I
doubt a lot of you would really know!
In the depths of night, a scent of blood hangs heavy in the air,
as if the clouds themselves had wept pools of blood, for their
sorrows in the form of rain.

I gently brushed away tears from a shard of ancient, stained
glass, lost in contemplation of the countless destinations we
could have been, our adventures stretching infinitely like the
vastness of the sea.

Yet, amidst the myriad of dreams we dared to envision,
the glass whispered a profound truth:

We are only as broken as the reflections we allow our
external mirrors to see.

I am man who wants a lot though – I hope I win the lotto! I hope
she didn't try to park her heart in my mind, "where did she park
her car though?" Depression rides passenger, like some useless
cargo – I've studied my drive for a loaned passion, keeping an eye
on that car note. But sometimes I wonder where this car goes;
and I haven’t met the kiss of peace, just like I never seen Chicago.

I have a lot of goals – but scores of hurt; from questions of self-worth.
Tell me the maker of mismatched hopes, and the creator of dreams
from their birth? Who first put a curse on the tongue, to speak a few
curse words – who went that under someone, to underestimate when
they show a few nerves?

Would someone show me the why to the end of one's poverty -
better yet, how to own your misfortunes as first steps to fortune,
and living your worth, as your own property.

I am man who wants a lot - a whole lot of answers, to the questions
about the script of my life story; to live up to its plot.

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