warning: this post contains content that might be an insight to some viewers.
~ignorant viewer discretion is advised.~
i'm not picky, i probably even like you. so long as you tell the truth. i like people,
As they Are and Were. (thoughts on truth and people)
My words are cut off, like a fixed
drip. drip. drop.
like the dry blue sky, my conscience is clear.
you know me? like the back of my hand, washed clean
with soap made of lye?
truth is like liquid. hard to see. hard to hold.
hard to speak until swallowed. truth is hard and it is cold.
we could go on....
about how truth floods, fuels those who run, but
what would be the point?
it'd read as Just
a pencil thin line, that once touched becomes
so, this paper stays blank,
as the back of my mind.
inspiration gone, without even the linger
of the last note of a song.
and all of This, started,
with choices and actions
that like falling lifeless
leaves lie heaped on the ground, for its
the autumn of the seasonal year.
we think we're done when everything is dead,
but it comes down to one thing,
not zero or none.
Truth is the matter.
That, makes who we are.
not at once, but quite slowly
in a small drip. drip. drop.
so, with this matter only,
my words, are cut off.
~we all know that 'Someone', who we'll never figure out, but still, we befriend them. the mystery is half [or whole] of the intrigue. and being their friend, its kind of like listening to AM and FM radio at the same time: mixed signals, bad reception, the same four lines in the same four songs, and a mess of political opinions.
yet, we like music, we like to hear familiar things, and to think through the opinions of others, and so, we like this person.
i'm not picky, i probably even like you. so long as you tell the truth.