Scattered mass;
Glorious mess.
Towering strongholds —
The only grasp of reality.
Writings of a Phobophobe.
Scattered mass;
Glorious mess.
Towering strongholds —
The only grasp of reality.
A touch of poison;
A kiss of death.
Your hugs were wreaths
Enclosed with regrets.
Is it greater pain,
To have found true love and lost
Or to never have found before?
“You’re not my type.”
But the eyes don’t lie.
And love, we might.
Let’s ride the high,
Gotta be your kryptonite.
No, don’t let my heart die.
Life without a dime,
Deemed society’s crime.
You’ll be a mere mime,
In a race against time.
Run away
From the world you loved,
They never understood your ways.
Fade away
From those dreams you had,
They won’t take off anyway.
Cash we seek;
Glory we chase,
But man, I’d tell you that’s just surface.
Even with all the success
But our hearts misplaced,
It’ll be real doom
No matter what we taste.
But that’s really just a peek
At the consequence we’ll face.
“We want happiness,”
And that’s all we say.
Look at us now —
Alive but dead.
What do we have now?
“Blindness to kindness,” I’d say.
Clank.
Another one of those hearts got broken.
Aching through the flanks,
Alone and solemn.
Me and you against the world,
Seems like it was just an old folk tale,
When there are ones against your fleur,
Hands in the pocket no matter bail or jail.
Can’t you see
You should let me be?
Before I flee,
Just set me free.
Held captive by twines of the city,
All we needed was our minds at liberty.
Going double
It spells trouble.
Son of a gun,
They call it fun.
Evil is love
Masked as a dove.
Twisted fate
And undying hate.
Left at the end,
A broken heart to mend.