Somewhere in between reality and a lie, my truths are less the stories and more the rhyme. An author abounding with arrogance defeats his own desires as his demons devour him.
How translucent, yet shielded I remain. I contemplate my safety and wallow in the stains on my resume. My feelings detained for later days of truth, nondescript and fantastic.
This is not the life I live, or the one I want, this is something else entirely, a world you created and I told you about. How does that make you feel? Being God is a burden, one would assume.
In the words of Oscar Wilde
Happy trails to open conversation, as I bait you in with contemplation, simplicity and foolery. How lucky you are to wear my words on your sleeves, and how difficult they were to create. My throat gives you no more. Cherish.
Please don't hold on, it's getting worse.
Please don't listen, I'm a mad man.
Please draw me in closer...
I wanted to speak candidly, but this shining armor weighs my morals down to the dirt and my boots crush the grass on the shady side of a makeshift oasis.
Obscure? Perhaps.
Meaningful? To someone, perchance.
Did it ever mean a thing to me before I knew you loved it?
You are so talented. You kill meee.
ReplyDelete