On How It Is

I spend most of my time wishing she would speak to me, and the remainder of the time wishing she hadn’t and gluing back together the piece broken by what she has said.

Regardless of this immeasurable pain shot from the finger blade of my ironic angel I can’t help but be relieved by her presence.

Shallow and transparent ever present villainy permeates and eventually will permanently perverse my prominent personality, rhyme and reason.

Who will I be then? How much time will I spend? How much more glue is there to mend. How many more truths, this is truth No.2

I don’t have the words to say No.1. I don’t want to tell you, even though I know you want to know.

It seems that this is good for me, or so these eclipsing chariots scream so. At least these walls want to keep me safe and warm… I’m not so certain about sane.