The reference was on the tip of your tongue, splitting words for justification.
Could you ever lounge around with the guilt of knowing you can never stop time?
Knowing one night after another, it's redundant.
Quiet, with nothing to spare but the tears of the past.
The bliss of oblivion was staring at you, the static in their eyes; losing yourself in the cycle.
The cycle of consumption, growing.
Growing taller than me and you.
Ideally, falling in love with nothing to lose was to fit the age of the young.
Every category falls into the youth, even death.
The thought acts as a phantom, pressuring for a successful life.
And sometimes, they crack.
Becoming an old cracking painting.
It's only beautiful because the one who painted it can no longer speak for themselves.
Now, would believe me when I say.
There's beauty in death?
The reference is on your tongue, is cut off.
Spitting blood, of the many who couldn't word it any better.
YOU ARE READING
Out Of Order
PoetryPerturbed. Anxiety awaits those who can't distinguish between actions or emotions, therefore never implying what she thought was important. Animosity. Apart from her balancing on the tight rope, resentment tipped her over and down she goes. Deep int...
