I can’t get close to it. I can’t run away from it. I keep with sins, I thresh islands. So cured for cursed, so found for lost. I was a child, angling for a giant, pushing memories. Love is Art. Art is Music. Blatant cries!
Those inside, are at war. I
find life in a bassline. I Found mesmerism in a student.
It’ll never be; reason to forfeit fancy.
It’s a fucked reality, bleeding rubies, most are taking shrooms.
Such perfect uneasiness, such decent intoxication, to see us refusing joys, hampered in soul, laughing nonetheless.
Keep it. It wasn’t mine.
Be proud. It has accomplished its goal.
I can’t get close to it. I can’t run away from it.
Try measuring mathematics, a glacial algorithm—
High speed, a late night, puffing a cigarette.
And you would appear. As upon a thought. So sickly powerful.
It’s better to a thought, albeit, it haunts, something infinitely with discomfort.
Something was wrong. It was me. I had to listen.
