This Is Yours.

Let me be absolutely casual this time. I had to. The pain kept coming in constantly that ending what pretended it's existence was crucial on my half. An excellent friend simply does not mean an excellent partner. It's attitude and it's simply not within you. There isn't any point if I kept giving all I have in exchange for all that shit you put on my face. It is simply unacceptable. I'm glad that I had ended it. You're selfish, you're full of yourself, which is why you kept taking and you have ego that doesn't belong to a fistful size of self, you. I never was dramatic, I never was overemotional, as to how you are spreading for the world to hear these false rumors of me. You're the one lashing out upon social networking site of every little thing that is happening in your life. You're pathetic in my eyes. Don't pretend to hurt me further by your actions because greatly, love has overcome all hurt in me. Biggest thing I may have done for you throughout our entire relationship is to forgive you that final end.

Knowing Little.

SO the whys are asked. Looking around, only the furniture and cold air answers me. Their language I speak not so an answer I'm still seeking width. A parallel momentum of emotions destined for corruption of one's self. All without answers because depression enjoys what's gradually to completion. I'm curious knowing the ongoing of the lives of others. To judge or to relate, or both. To convince on the other hand, is difficult. Yet her Queen knows their deeds and the art of manipulation to her desires. What is it of the many of us desiring the greater amount attention. It's harmful, with tears I say this. That rhythmic heart beat, not disturbed, calm as it walks gently in it's sorrowful world. I need a companion, nothing more, who would walk me through this life, sharing the same ideology of this insane ground. A secret understanding through secret glaces; eye to eye. It's sad. I cry. Maybe, nothing more, maybe, something less. They say the Africans killed an elephant, but ego kills joy, or rather it's built centered upon it. It isn't much I'm asking for, I repeat myself like a sound-sane broken record. It's just the minimal of the maximum I can receive which is, a little of everything that is given times the amount that has been said would be deducted from the start. In total, completion of knowing little, yet gaining much. This is depression of it's average taken on the mental toll. Joy, fill me up.

Cunt.

Take all this shit here I have, swallow, then go dig a grave for me.

Selah.

My words, they're stunned, as I'm sad. My flow, they're prohibited, as I'm upset. Everything slows down in time, as I'm lost for and of speech. Pointy it means a boy of no wealth disposing dreams to a hurtful path down that cobble toed lanes. The night darken it's skies owning it's moment till dawn spurs. Quiet it may be, soundlessly unearthing everything that has been buried. Eating away from within, like an expensive treasure. To determine would mean to avail it's truth that there is absolutely no splendor, no romance, a non laughing matter whatsoever. I wish there are ways of saying things which refuses it's proposal. To allow that moment of a short spanned glory to be felt. Maybe lower down a thread and pick happiness for instance. I wish it could be allowed. A man cannot die twice as how a heart cannot be twice broken. Once is enough to leave it's remnants shattered and pain felt forevermore, bearing it's scar a lonely witness. But life cannot be defined. It's tales are spun with many colored threads it complicates being with texture and preferences. Many await that final day, of when all ends, and a chance of a new beginning.

Wildest Rêve.

About a year ago, sitting in an office, I used Google Maps to see the Eiffel. About a year later, standing in front of it, I witness the Eiffel. I feel life being so beautiful at this current moment.