“It’s November all over again.
I was sitting on the terrain.
And in my heart there’s rain.
Mourning over things that are bland, mundane.
Talked about pain and how I have no brain.
Trying to look of what I’ve gained.
Only to found out that everything was in vain.
It’s November, all over again.”
The solitude it enjoys. Not to value self too highly, for that it easily deceived; still that innocent and dumb, only a little more cautious. For it grown full of hope, then turned into the least optimist.
How orgasmic it feels just by being unnoticed; it loves. Masochist at its purest. It learnt the fact that it is wrong by thinking it has grown; could be right if the thought reversed or by putting a contra positive adjustment. How lovely the company of subtle cracking voice the fag made, how unique and pretty the form of smoke the fag made, as if something more delicate are only heaven and true love; it believes. Only the side effects; the highness, the loss of conscience and the appearance of sub-conscious, the hangover, the tear produced from vomiting; could reduce the joy, even it still doubts that those are detriment.
It begs the others would spare it the attention; it hates.
Easily distracted by trivialities. A fire ant blowed by the winds a face brought soundlessly but with resounding effect, significant enough to blow its mind. The most trivial it will always notice, while obvious it is not.
Too insecure, full of fear of festivity, it better off alone, as individual. Hating people, not interested in competing, not wanting to draw any attention. Hopelessly only want affection from self, which could not be attained for anytime one can helplessly falling in love, appearing neediness of a presence, at the very least a cross between caring and kindness, with a dash of consideration; for without those it suffers, so irritating even whence suffer’s endearing, satisfying its torture-buff mental.
It tried, but..
It don’t want, it won’t, it can’t.
Still it foolishly tried.
I wonder why. I love writing something without any particular aim, always ended up hanging the meaning. I love written words so much still, I think. I wonder why.
There goes the beast.
The impatience, demanding, and hard to satisfied piece of immortal woman .(I wonder if it is okay to use the phrase ‘woman’)
She even scared herself, so why wouldn’t you?
With all due respect to holiness of the truth, she said sorry.
And there she is prepared for the consequences.
Talking about beast and the vacillation whether it is at the phase in between, though, I think it is quite appropriate to quote some of the lyrics in “Beast and The Harlot” by Avenged Sevenfold. How I wish Rev hasn’t dead yet.
This shining city built of gold, a far cry from innocence,
There’s more than meets the eye round here, look to the waters of the deep.
A city of evil.
There sat a seven-headed beast, ten horns raised from his head.
Symbolic woman sits on his throne, but hatred strips her and leaves her naked.
The Beast and the Harlot.