Empty melodies sputter stupidly
to mind, and the drive
is still present
to create something that will
last because we all know
we're headed to an end
called nowhere and
nothing, but we try to stand
out by impressing the
macrocosm we are
wasting away in so that
the inner anguish doesn't
make its way to the
ugly, honest surface of
humanity we try to
deny.
Hey, dollface,
I can't be everything to
you, and I know you know
this because you're human,
too, and no matter how
beautiful you are
nor how I place
you above and before me
which really makes
me want you so much
more since you're not
some thought-dissolving
bitch like the rest
who don't understand me
anyway and act
like I'm nothing since
they can't be out of control
nor headed in the wrong
direction.
But I'm probably just
telling myself this.
