(no subject)
No audacious tone
No pretentious words
No presumptuous gestures
Immensity of doubt has grown as boundless as the dark, and light remains absent in places so obscure. She wishes upon a star, mistaking it for the night as wasted wishes lead to wasted hope. Craving has subsided to a measly reverberating rumble, an infinitesimal sound, distant, but still maintaining its pervasive presence. She seemingly follows the same repetitious modes, choosing tasteless crutches who need their own crutches, with handicaps in all the same places, filling yet empty, just one step short of enlightenment. They stunt her growth but still she remains under their pressure, turning from hues of pink to purple to blue. She hears the echo of the desolate chambers, once full of substance…she knows, but folds her ears in shame. She continues to suck on glass marbles, beckoning her tongue to clumsily lose grip, to perhaps slid down her throat and choke her so. The nine lines, resonant of a more chaotic tune, stir weights of nostalgia to tug tied heartstrings. Her weeping becomes distant as distractions respond on cue. She needs her key. He needs his door.
No pretentious words
No presumptuous gestures
Immensity of doubt has grown as boundless as the dark, and light remains absent in places so obscure. She wishes upon a star, mistaking it for the night as wasted wishes lead to wasted hope. Craving has subsided to a measly reverberating rumble, an infinitesimal sound, distant, but still maintaining its pervasive presence. She seemingly follows the same repetitious modes, choosing tasteless crutches who need their own crutches, with handicaps in all the same places, filling yet empty, just one step short of enlightenment. They stunt her growth but still she remains under their pressure, turning from hues of pink to purple to blue. She hears the echo of the desolate chambers, once full of substance…she knows, but folds her ears in shame. She continues to suck on glass marbles, beckoning her tongue to clumsily lose grip, to perhaps slid down her throat and choke her so. The nine lines, resonant of a more chaotic tune, stir weights of nostalgia to tug tied heartstrings. Her weeping becomes distant as distractions respond on cue. She needs her key. He needs his door.