Trött.
vardag /
2015-09-18 / 01:05:03
Troublesome. Loathing the impression that seems to be imprinted in strangers eyes. Mindful conversation, transcending angels hovering about in the smoke filled air. Murder to breath, suicide to think. I don't feel to well this evening, but then again no one thinks that I ever will. Again, at least. Past events destroyed the everlasting innocence and bloom. The paleness has been shadowed by the mass, and its roots are ever so deep in the dampened soil. Golden sparks clutching at your throat, they once said you were unbroken, a genius soul. Did they shatter you, or was it your own fault. A demise so petrifying, so cruel; barely your mother could recognize you. Child, come in. Don't be afraid. Home is in tomorrow, there is always another day. But lurking in the shallows are the sharks, with slender voices, inviting you in. Deep breath. No more. All the lines, the slurs in blurred blissfulness. It was all an illusion, a test. Derrange your mindset, hollowness can never be your friend. This is not what whats meant for you. So sprint. Make a run. Sweat. Bellow at the skies. Curse the gods, that never existed in your head. They might as well be the thoughts that will force you to mourn in hell.
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