Gold shimmers, snaking a river through the canyon of our young and
wasted minds. Sparkling thoughts of muted homicide trickle through
forests of insomnia and better days. Fleeting memories convex and
concave upon utterly infamous last words, that you’ve memorized line for
line, biting your tongue until your heart stops beating. Try to get a
grip on reality and see where that takes you. Heavy hearts, thick with
the children of your ancestors only to be wound up tight through you in
an everlasting catacomb of misery and slight sarcasm. Beautiful ideas
from an ugly mind. And to think I’ve tried so hard to stop these tears
from flowing. But I guess only the privileged can live that kind of
life. Ignorance is bliss. Hold me closer, maybe you’ll catch the
disease. Fake kisses mixed in with heart break and false love, who am I
to judge? I am the beholder of everything I observe, everything I
observe is a beholder of me. I’m trying to let you down sweetly, so
maybe you’ll realize what a mess you’ve made. Please just tell me my
lips taste like strawberries, so I can have the kind of love Ed Sheeran
sings about. The kind of love that’s been idolized from age three. “I
want to love someone who wants to cuddle.” I’m sorry did I miss the
memo? Because last time I checked cuddling became fucking and that’s all
we ever seem to want to do anymore isn’t it? So fuck each other, have a
baby. Name the child in my honor because I’m the one who screwed you
over. Raise that child on the premiss of cereal and erroneous tragedy.
Throw in a little misguided lust and you have the flower child of the
century. Congratulations. You’ve made a miracle mistake.
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