#66
The middle of the shore is stepping at my door. When were you the sea, so you could come at me? Please tell me. Why'd you go so far, coming so afar? What was I supposed to be, anything else than a living library?
You used me.
I was the entertainment when you couldn't rhyme. You were a verse I could've continued, to make it rhyme. You used me. You thought I will be here forever, eating your whole shit.
I'm over it.
You can become the most deprived human in my sight, and I won't say a word, but write. I'd say: "what a desilusion of breathing is this someone that I'm leaving?". I'd keep missing. I'd still be suffering.
I do it.
The sea is my mother and the shore is my never loved father. The people I love will be loved. The people I fought for will remain poetry for me. The stories, I love the stories. You and me. You and them.
I really miss them.
And FUCK love, because it tore us apart. It made a hole in my heart, in the "a" shaped letter when I want to get better... through writing. Because I live out of it: sex and friendship. Because, in definition, love will set us all apart. It will make us invincible, if known how, or more likely, by what.
Fuck that.
The shore is a part of the sea. That's the known misery of a person like me. We love deep connections, satisfying transitions between love and friendships. And late night walks, beer and sandwiches. I'd pay for a text came into context at the best time than a luxurious blunt that hits my physical 'high'.
So I...
I wish that I will exist with the same amount of polish over my tense soul. It goes out of control. It starts hating, it gets vain, it makes me think of "being cool" rather than having a "creative brain". Fuck me. Becoming something I don't want to be.
I just want you.
