There was this dream that I had.
There were two people from my past in this dream.
One from the not-so-distant past.
The other of the reoccuring type past.
The dream was unnerving to say the least.
There was this touch that happened.
Lips to lips. A simple, but heavy brush of one on the other.
Of the accidental type that was so accidental, that it was on purpose.
And my God.
I'd be lying if I said I'v never felt a dream so real.
The lip to lip accident.
It was of the real kind.
The real kind of dream when you wake up and you still feel what happened.
When you wake up and you still fucking feel the lip to lip accident.
When you wake up and you know you just had an encounter with some alternate reality were everything was real.
When you wake up and your memories come rushing back, flooding your mind.
And you still fucking feel it.
You fucking feel those lips.
Like you've been feeling them every day of your whole life.
This reoccuring type.
What a fucking menace, I tell you.
A plague to the mind.
He creeps in through your eyes and fills you mind with his reoccuring nonsence.
He takes control. Over and over and over and over again.
You can't fucking resist this.
The reoccuring type is a fucking classic disaster.
A hostile takeover.
Of a not-so-sworn enemy ground.
In steps my not-so-distant past.
It was like a day had never past without that constant by my side kind of feeling.
It felt pretty real, too.
But not as real as that fucking reoccuring type.
I'll fucking tell you. There ain't nothing else liek that type.
The type that infiltrates your veins.
You blood is his vessel for this ever reoccuring hostile not-so-nightmare kind of deal.
I wish it were a nightmare.
It'd be so fucking easy if it were a nightmare. To get over, I mean.
But this was no fucking nighmare.
This was a fucking not-so-dream-come-true.
It was of the real kind.
But it was the type that no matter how real you want it to be, it will never happen on your life.
It made me so fucking happy.
How can a dream make someone so fucking happy.
That fucking reoccuring type.
Fucking filthy master of disguise.
That's what he is.
Hiding behind the mask of something spectacular.
Fucking emanating love songs spectacular type, I mean.
I hate that.
I hate him.
The reoccuring type. That's what I'm saying.
What a fucking player.
Playing emotions like a guitar. The infinite number of strings type of guitar.
He plays until his emanated love songs get past your ears.
Then he's in your head.
And he doesn't get over. Ever, I mean.
He'll fucking stay there until the day you die.
That's what they do.
Those reoccuring types.
Fucking love songs.
Fucking spectacular kind of dreams.
I still feel him on my lips.
One from the not-so-distant past.
The other of the reoccuring type past.
The dream was unnerving to say the least.
There was this touch that happened.
Lips to lips. A simple, but heavy brush of one on the other.
Of the accidental type that was so accidental, that it was on purpose.
And my God.
I'd be lying if I said I'v never felt a dream so real.
The lip to lip accident.
It was of the real kind.
The real kind of dream when you wake up and you still feel what happened.
When you wake up and you still fucking feel the lip to lip accident.
When you wake up and you know you just had an encounter with some alternate reality were everything was real.
When you wake up and your memories come rushing back, flooding your mind.
And you still fucking feel it.
You fucking feel those lips.
Like you've been feeling them every day of your whole life.
This reoccuring type.
What a fucking menace, I tell you.
A plague to the mind.
He creeps in through your eyes and fills you mind with his reoccuring nonsence.
He takes control. Over and over and over and over again.
You can't fucking resist this.
The reoccuring type is a fucking classic disaster.
A hostile takeover.
Of a not-so-sworn enemy ground.
In steps my not-so-distant past.
It was like a day had never past without that constant by my side kind of feeling.
It felt pretty real, too.
But not as real as that fucking reoccuring type.
I'll fucking tell you. There ain't nothing else liek that type.
The type that infiltrates your veins.
You blood is his vessel for this ever reoccuring hostile not-so-nightmare kind of deal.
I wish it were a nightmare.
It'd be so fucking easy if it were a nightmare. To get over, I mean.
But this was no fucking nighmare.
This was a fucking not-so-dream-come-true.
It was of the real kind.
But it was the type that no matter how real you want it to be, it will never happen on your life.
It made me so fucking happy.
How can a dream make someone so fucking happy.
That fucking reoccuring type.
Fucking filthy master of disguise.
That's what he is.
Hiding behind the mask of something spectacular.
Fucking emanating love songs spectacular type, I mean.
I hate that.
I hate him.
The reoccuring type. That's what I'm saying.
What a fucking player.
Playing emotions like a guitar. The infinite number of strings type of guitar.
He plays until his emanated love songs get past your ears.
Then he's in your head.
And he doesn't get over. Ever, I mean.
He'll fucking stay there until the day you die.
That's what they do.
Those reoccuring types.
Fucking love songs.
Fucking spectacular kind of dreams.
I still feel him on my lips.