A writer. A poet? Perhaps an artist. Free soul yet abide contently to THE rules. Singing to me, to hold me away from my constant worries. Of the demanding life of, ironically, a wall flower. To knock me on the cranium with a mutual wish of a chance of spilling the filling all over. Ready, to crouch with me and dwell in my melancholy, sprightly waltz with me when sense my chortling sentiment. To never let me let myself be pushed for the bit of rationality i have always sensed in the present logic. Not ridiculed, perhaps just chaffed, in whatever form i am or bespeak of. They say with sacrifices, you treasure it more. I say with blithe, i add up to the hoard. As i am easily fatigued of the cliches.
Yet again, life is no movies.
The vacant future, must be fulfilled. Must be de-void of what benefit all significant presence(s). There's always. That can crack a smile in me, although before long, or even right before, i know, or i thought i know, all too well, that it didn't in the one who claimed so, causing me to not hold the flexing zygomaticus much longer . Which sometimes, leave me all too plain.
So again, what do you want?
I shut up.
I don't talk anymore, remember?
And now i already can't, just like i always have been.
I am not sorry.