The Tornado of Our Lives

How much we philosophise... How we want to explain everything we see, or don't see.

Lying eyes. gray-blue skies. The feeling of hearing your heartbeat inside your own head and fists turning red with the frost of fear beckoning to turn you into solid stone. At least a figure to portray your true feelings inside.

Love is not all butterflies, roses and wine. It's wasps, ivy and poison too. You burn as the burning do. you break like all fragile do. You see through hers and she sees through your eyes through and through. What lies beyond those smiles and tears and smirks of uncertainty?

What did I find so precious that I just can't let go?

Now you see? trying to explain everything. Trying to question everything and still standing here like a retarded fuck and not knowing who the hell I am or what the hell I want.

This, my friend, is poetry at its purest form.