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Attention is the currency of the realm,
to which many waste what little they have,
how do you waste yours?

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Lingering Poem

A mind you become obsessed in understanding
Eyes you can get lost in while you lose yourself
Lips more tempting to kiss than ones will can handle
They’re often everything you want, not what you need

Thrice this life has given me this
Each time leaving me to choose want and desire
Will this time be different or much of the same as before

When asked to what was once a heart on a spike it was done
Time and again it was left to wither and rot

Perhaps it’s time for the dreamer to finally wake up and stop dragging those whoa re more they he deserves into the nightmare called ‘his life’…. Yea, maybe this time it will be different, right?

I don’t really like myself, you know?

I really am pathetic you know.

The murky sense of self loathing for which is deep inside just keeps growing.

I know the reason for it.

No nobel act of selfless good or martyrdom, it’s entirely based on self preservation because of what would happen, well, at least the fear of it.

Knowing the depths of your own depravity and what you’re capable of isn;t something I’d wish on anyone because while knowing yourself is meant to be something to aspire towards, people often only ever talk about it int he sense of good, they forget that we’re made up of many things, some of which are better left undisturbed.

One day, standing in front of me with rage & hurt in their eyes I will know true suffering.

A burden that is my accepted choice because of my actions, words will not account for anything in the end, yet if any more of that pain can be taken or laid on to me than it’s welcome.

Nothing will ever make up for this transgression, this abandonment.

A future I never wanted for myself due to my own fractured past, forced upon me because of my own ignorance and trust in people and the faith that they’re inherently good.

What a young fool I was.

Fool indeed.

I’m a fool, are you one too?

Their future mistakes are already written in my past, just like mine with yours.

We refuse to listen, fighting what we know to be truth every step of the way.

Our resilience is unwavering and completely misguided.

Always struggling against what doesn’t matter, all the while letting what does slip away.

We are fools of youth, cynics of old and nothing more than what we never where.

Different, Almost

In another life, people would say “He¬†was a good man.”
Scoundrel in others
Hopeless romantic throughout many
The true personification of evil, once
A weary old soul caught in the cycle, just like all the others
Head filled with dreams that aren’t really dreams but fragments of lives now dust
I wonder how they will remember me this time around.