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merry yurimas (ft stellemarch)

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tastes like watermelon

hey there little snowflake, how’s it feel to be so different? as kids we’re taught we’re each unique, equal but still separate is it all that it’s cracked up to be, is your glacier still sufficient? drifting in the silent air, what’s it like from your perspective? watch the ice, it ebbs and flows, but changes oh-so-slowly, but as circumstances inclement and heat rises below you, the cracks to be are born within and it’s hard not to feel lonely now you slide off back into the sea, and your birthplace will absorb you

we say the things we want to feel and hope that life will flow according, we’re all shaped how we wish we weren’t but we’re real good at contorting or so we like to tell ourselves, but when the cameras aren’t recording and we’re alone with all our thoughts we’re not who we purported are we victims of our circumstance or creatures of discomfort? what’s the answer to the question nature versus nurture? is there solace to be found in truth we think assertive? or is this dreaming all we have, be it suicide or murder?

i know what this might mean to you, but if it’s all the same to me, what you see as naked truth might just be personal belief what is blue to the freshly sighted? is it fair if he feels frightened? if there’s no war, will you incite it? will you hear or choose to fight it? your experience whispers certainty, but it tastes like watermelon to me

what is it that sets us apart, distinct from one another? we all have our own arguments, we all fear one rebuttal but why are you who you believe, why was i not born my brother? and why are some so well-adjusted, why are some always in trouble? we scramble for the answers from the mess that we were left with, draw water from the stones we find and desperately ingest it, when faced with hunger, horror true, contrive some sort of lesson, but has anybody else thought yet how fucked up that this test is? what is there to learn from life and how hard must we still study? we search the skies, we scale the peaks, until our fingers bloody if we’re the stones from which we squeeze the answers when we’re thirsty, how do we know when we should ease, what if we squeeze to bursting? all we have to judge each other are our own struggled stories, frantic pages scribbled on while our forest homes were burning from jungles green into concrete, the sanctified and holy, the fire burns inside us now but we’re still not close to knowing

i know how this might feel to you, but if it’s all the same to me, what you think is blanket truth might be obscuring what you see if he feels pink but is delighted, if she’s not you when you had tried it, will you accept or choose to fight it? the war you waged is still inside you you say, “a labored fruit is not as sweet”, but it still tastes like watermelon to me