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perfectly_chaotic
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Chilling repetions.
Not just the turnarounds, nor round-a-bouts.
Round after round of fruition,
something my labors have not brought 'bout.
The cinematic replay of yesterday's plays,
each one runs rampant in my head.
They all have the same cutscene to relay,
the day when my heart, well, it sure had fled
from the bones I carry with me, each one,
a reminder of when our lips first met,
the fire, the great blue rising of the sun,
is there nothing more I can do that we can let
our minds forgive us? What a tragedy it seems,
at least to me, as I read the same damnable phrase,
every last word poisons my heart like an oil of neem
does the pests, to once again view the same phrase
That damnable phrase that tells me that "I miss you."
The one that describes the first time we truly met,
in the same place that tonight I did sit,
I tell you, thinkin bout this smells of the arm pits.
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