How do we forget that out of everything being spoiled the greatness isn’t in the wounds, heart ache and anger. It could be in the crease of your laugh and running to conclusions, stopping at the green light and turning around to start all over again. That as a numbing heartbeat we think to the pulp of being yet over analysing the whys and why nots of our over bearing often straggling parent we have fostered our minds into. Shaping circles into lives completing the abstract find, you were told it’s still but a theory, and you should have started with a square or a dumb unused signature at the end of your work. Let’s split at the first thought of joy, or stay to see the glow that has rendered in to us. We could possibly be mad buts that’s no fun. We could be insane but that’s no good, I don’t want your paragraph on how I should’ve been at the time. It’s just how it is.
New new new, there’s nothing new about all of the young days turned to grown grave giving nights.
Metaphorically in terms I sound difficult. Because being as it is, is being too triumph for the kinder parade. The paradox using the theory. The theory of being is in life it’s self. There’s nothing new yet untold. Unspilled on paper. Just a new date to remember.