Writings of a creature
how do I pretend we have never met,
do I pass by you, or do I cross the street?
were you a delusion or was I deluded
thinking that we could,
perhaps be together and not secluded?
you were the grace in my strife,
turned into a disgrace on my life
oh, how I thought this would last,
now you are just a phantom of era’s past.
I’m tired and defeated
of holding onto every sentence,
of empty words and feelings,
of empty promises and schisms,
of drifting into the abyss between:
ideation
and
realization
tiring talks of keeping
but not sprouting
tired of seeding
just for your weed to eat it
tired of empty pity
just to be pitted against me.
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