acraein

I’m sorry I sang in an angry tone.

Your eyes low, then rose.

You spoke your prose and ran.

Sister chasing brother in the snow.

I’m sorry I see me in you,

Our life’s mistakes ablaze,

Upon advice we make them anyways,

Biting off more than we can chew.

I hope you know I want what’s best

For your life and mine tied at the breast.

I hope I know what’s best for you.

I can’t have you in this floor I’ve fallen through.

Same pitfalls and floodgates,

Watch our traps amalgamate.

I’m sorry I love you,

The driving force in our parting ways.

That and my striving for improvement craze.

And dissecting how our shadows grew.

And if I looked up and didn’t see some dumb ball,

I’d be sad?

I don’t see why.

A reliance on a state of mind.

A weakness given to the whims

of chemical receptacles

whose preferences consist of settings

where light meets darkness.

Contrasting visual stimulus.

An iron fist is the way to go,

though.

A series of synapse manips.

Maximizing delta utils.

Flux. I’m riding dives and dips.

Any other way is futile.

And doing this I snap the cold.

From a rush of love or joy or flirty retorts

to scraping kitchen mold

or itemizing expense reports.

No longer waxing on that sickle circle

to provide me with that pale shade.

My time too valuable for trade,

and my heart has never waned invisible.