I don't have a line of prospects that can give some kind of peace
There is nothing left to cling to that can bring me sweet release
I have no fear of drowning
It's the breathing that's taking all this work
Do you know what I mean?
The breathing, the drowning, the work - LIFE.
Death comes in many ways, least of all in the physical.
Rejection, nonchalance.
Insignificant, fly on the wall.
Accused, awaiting the furnace.
Just trying to figure out who I am instead.
He calls her child, and rightly so.
The foolish thoughts held, immature beliefs grown.
She needs to learn, one day she'll know.
How she crushes words, and they her soul.
Blatant defiance of wills, deception of the wits.
The heart grows hard, her conscience grows cold.
He who seeks wisdom, rewarded with great feats.
She seeks the same, but answered with silence.
Is that her destiny, her child-likeness as victory?
On a separate note, I hate birthdays. Or rather, I hate the social patterns that a birthday demands. and possibly, at the core of it, I hate the lack of observation and skills that hinder the birthday celebrations. Don't we all deserve to be treated well every single day? to be appreciated - sincerely? to be recognised for our unique self?
Why is it limited to only our birth-day, x number of years ago?
This work of balancing sincerity and of social norms and of personal convictions - it demands a level of wisdom I do not possess. Skill. And the constant flurry of doubts that pummel the mind.
Looking forward.
But first, to forget the past.
There is nothing left to cling to that can bring me sweet release
I have no fear of drowning
It's the breathing that's taking all this work
Do you know what I mean?
The breathing, the drowning, the work - LIFE.
Death comes in many ways, least of all in the physical.
Rejection, nonchalance.
Insignificant, fly on the wall.
Accused, awaiting the furnace.
Just trying to figure out who I am instead.
He calls her child, and rightly so.
The foolish thoughts held, immature beliefs grown.
She needs to learn, one day she'll know.
How she crushes words, and they her soul.
Blatant defiance of wills, deception of the wits.
The heart grows hard, her conscience grows cold.
He who seeks wisdom, rewarded with great feats.
She seeks the same, but answered with silence.
Is that her destiny, her child-likeness as victory?
On a separate note, I hate birthdays. Or rather, I hate the social patterns that a birthday demands. and possibly, at the core of it, I hate the lack of observation and skills that hinder the birthday celebrations. Don't we all deserve to be treated well every single day? to be appreciated - sincerely? to be recognised for our unique self?
Why is it limited to only our birth-day, x number of years ago?
This work of balancing sincerity and of social norms and of personal convictions - it demands a level of wisdom I do not possess. Skill. And the constant flurry of doubts that pummel the mind.
Looking forward.
But first, to forget the past.
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