Pointing out my friends is like a finger aiming at a closet of skeletons.
Asking man about his ends without the means is easy clean.
Trying to understand the understatement that is in between.
The truth in scenario is that our life holds on, as we do, its see through, it won't take long.
Mimicked by the dangers, a society of strangers, a nutured shortcoming, that proves lonely as it angers.
I seek, and even when I find it, I know I've got to hit the road and quit this focused diet. An imbacel with embryo, when everything lacks luster. A memory that balances as road is traced by rubber.
I'll be here tomorrow, but meaning dies and ressurects, I hate to feel a graveyard of the structures never seen erect.
The places never seen through eyes when they are bright and broadened. A hollow hole can house a soul, if not so, for this longing.
I hate a world thats starving, the people are sadistic, and man if it aint me its somebody else realistic. I feel so fucking empty, please pardon when I curse. These feelings are unfriendly, more than likely, well... deserved.
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