How you peek looks funny to me. Can you not see that it isn’t real? Was it ever? Maybe once but not anymore. I think you only expect if you never experienced enough pain, and it may take more than you’d think, for someone to switch-on. Requires a great amount of growth, “psychological strength”, whatever that is, I heard I held little inside, but he knows barely a thing of who I am. And he too came to mean barely something to me. He’s weak and you are just as much.
Smokes under the lightest Summer drizzle. Morning skies closed but ample yet unable to be fully regarded. It’s gray, so am I, cause I’m neither all light nor all dark. I’m in the middle of it, available to sense easiness in oddity. In a lovely dull Summer that stinks of nothingness, and its tone grows fresher, and in time, it’ll end just as anything eventually does.
It’ll keep ending, for as long as weaklings try to scratch unashen shores to only fail at it. It’s almost impossible to strive through untamed weeds and corners that no one but me knows. I see hope doesn’t die even when it should and I see that being a witless move, executed by whomever stood always mistaken and blindly tried as they can’t really ever see it. That’s the advantage of growing to be on top of it, you see them and then you either rejoice with their failure or you can stretch your hand, an aid initiative, fake perhaps, they don’t deserve better. And once you grab them, you own them, you’ve never lost control.
Funny how it functions, me and you, front to front and still you may never really get to know who’s winking back. This is a tale of someone, somewhere, who continues to boast with silence. For the absence leaves all hanging, presuming, them lost and me here, unbothered. Them at it, trying to feel, how amateurs… and discern, milking that illusion dry and nourishing their lives with it.
Observe and see all fall in doubt and in search of it, the touch that coldened you and is now slowly murdering them with bewilderment. However, they do not rest. They’re clueless.