He starts again, And a communication of his inner turmoil cavalries through my own pain of disgust. Breaking the passion of an addiction he tries to stay the same instantly but you can see the change blatantly by the smell – of time breaking his wounds into an everlasting despair and resurrection of need killing his efforts blissfully into a choke of tomorrow’s confusion and yesterdays waste... the present is the disease of fury and a scent of poisoned armoury that charges the room. The battle continues through his life and through mine, all of us trying to escape this jail of madness, fingers unclasping the taste of a wonderful hypnotisation , locks stay twisting the evolution of hate into a melodrama of a self’s catastrophe. I search the clean air for the hidden tornado of his abilities, squint my eyes from the pain that attacks me, my tears blown into the galaxy of his far distanced happiness. A kingdom burnt by his weapon, my life has only quivered with his ashes. Tell me, do you know how it feels? Yes, I whisper, so badly, I do, but my lips desire to never retire as the succulent shadows of our temptations grow profusely into this lifeless tumour of greed – he stands before me, I cry silently, the moments are passing and never coming back, for him and I, going and never stopping, the echo of our failures scream within the depth of their clammy sweat. Hour after hour the exercise of achieving a strong dream fattens, with remorse, the curvatures of beauty flatten, and the heaviness sickens with guilt –
He coughs on smoke, I die from Love
It’s a duo of traditional combinations of lack of freedom and hope for what you can never have.
I regret every second, he cannot figure out why it is so hard
The classical adaptation of ignorance in a blissful tragically manifestated era
He hopes to reach his definition; I hope to become the definition
But right now the only definition... separation, separates our bodies, understandings of thoughts, interpretations of truth, feelings of the heart, eyes of the soul and the wetness of my cheek.
He coughs on smoke, I die from Love
It’s a duo of traditional combinations of lack of freedom and hope for what you can never have.
I regret every second, he cannot figure out why it is so hard
The classical adaptation of ignorance in a blissful tragically manifestated era
He hopes to reach his definition; I hope to become the definition
But right now the only definition... separation, separates our bodies, understandings of thoughts, interpretations of truth, feelings of the heart, eyes of the soul and the wetness of my cheek.
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