in fact, sometimes it just happens to rhyme
The true thing is that you came and that you established a game and made me thank; made me polite and modern and all that wank. I held a prey to make you stay around, and I guess you did. At first round.
And eventually we became victims of the circumstance and we stood paired like two birdies ready to romance. Bromance, I'm such a clueless tool that one wouldn't have given it a second glance. And we had a thing or two and it was coil and quiet and demure. You made me moan and linger my mouth open. Apathy can only last for so long. So I executed this fling like a quick bird would kiss a flower; I didn't linger.
And yet you stung me with the past and brought a companion to my face. The least of respect would have been enough. I mean, come on, I rubbed his presence once to you and you had a fit; remember this glitch. Spitting it out makes it no less different than keeping my tiger eyes out, big spheres that ball up in your tricks and small courtesies; worlds colliding like bricks and stones and bones that crack easily. You thought I was breezy at first but now there's a complication to even talk.
Irony is a favoured undertone to everything that's passes by. It makes us take life more lightly; it's a quiet joke to a brain with no encore comedy hoax, recorded audiences, whatever. And so with irony we must satisfy ourselves; I satisfy myself in seeing you cluster with composure: where should you be at if there's two of us and none the wiser? You know nothing about the wiser. There are no wisemen.
They don't live around these hills. I'm happy to bemuse. Happy to find your face confused. It's funny and ironic, because you shouldn't give a fuck. Since the deed is portrayed. I slayer and I will slay in even, automatic pan; I'll slay and slay and slay again. I'm tired of this instance; a no-mance.
In my stance I linger and watch the rain drip. I made a stitch out of pure nylon twits and some awesome trousers with the wowzers that invaded the spot we step today. My point is I stood and will always stand alone - like a Jimmy Hawthorne. I wish I ever had his going.
The fish that drinks your pond dry is overrated and surrogated to your bank of memories of such a wild time ago, you might as well let go of farse. Don't hold onto the past. But I'm not here to talk about your choices, I'm the kind of friend with friendships and loyalty. I'm here to embrace your niche. Don't be so defensive.
I'm still trying to repeat this heavy beat because it's beyond me how the dogging came by. I wasn't here to say either hello or goodbye. I wasn't here to try and persuade your native tongue; I was here to enjoy the theatre and the art and the paintings in the wall. The little puppet stall. I was here to contemplate walls. I was here for myself and for a second, try to forget your shoes. This record we choose to repeat.
So don't mock me away and hold her fist and drag her up the stairs with the least of real courtesy or formal knowledge and integrity, and bark at me with a whistle rather than a roar; because if you were a man you would have known the timbre that it takes to shake this heavy wake.
I'm eloping with a friend, leaving behind a cute imagery of us two. He's kind and true and sits plainly in my room. A warrior of his own confidence; much like you. Because I'm no victim of my past, and victimism never meant to last.
Posted by Alice at 1:10 PM