We’re
sick with yearning, for something pleasant, free of agitation. Oh for dreams,
and whipped joys, flooded with strawberries. We want for tolerance, ours at all
times, as if a center piece. If only this life, as selfish as unthought,
running from closure; and more for brushes, an art aesthetic, to laugh at
symmetry. We find it hurts, to search for new, alive between months; but oh for
sick, for wheezing dearly, bleeding our lives; where onus is myth, to do it
again, to cut a soul. I’m found to drift, where love is passion, to touch but a
glow; and more she lives, a flower for graves, and envied dearly; so more she
dies, to lose for solace, to fall his arms; where diamonds speak, the gesture
of silence, to sit with presence. There’s such for difference, from dying to
laughing, and nibbling fruits; and where was love, for buried within, to meet a
chosen light. The
pains
are different, a want to share, to shed a stranger; in which was us, sitting
and lying, and hiding and grinning. The world knew, for something aflame—we
played pretend; and now for hate, to know we knew, where laughs are like
vinegar—a sour injection. The nights are pleased, despite for war, to know for
never; for life is riddles, a crooked lens, to want for secrets. We fathom for
little; but some just can’t, for it’s a bit too hard. So let us for know; as
opposed to churning, an innocent life. Indeed for rants, to clear for temples,
to whisper, “It’s known”; and both
were lying, and speaking forever, as enlove as chimpanzees. I must for laughs,
to witness life, spinning from an axis; but all must change, else for lonely, a
bit cold and jaded; and we never knew, to seek for new, blaming for being
caught; for never should look, if love be true, and never should ask. Its
social chaos, a distorted thought, breaking humanity.
