Sometimes girls are just to scared to be honest.
Scorching my soul with your soulless laughter I bleed what’s left of my glory’s rapture. The hollow quality of your fiction remain, for your vague, eager shadows are exactly the same. Nothing different occurs within your story book. Same bait, same lines, same hook. Funny. You’re running out of charisma with that tired look.
Your audience of ladies dries up you as lack inspiration to pour in their cup.
The heartless can act, blend, and pretend with best of friends, but they can never lend safe passage to curiosity.
And that’s all I ever was, just curious at a different perspective. Not so much these days. Not with your empty plays.
Liars enjoy the ruse. I simply call you the muse. Vision leads to ambition. You are no longer what I envision
as my disappointment sinks into the hollow grave of my chest -I am simply reminded that you were always the best.
At lying... withholding...withdrawing....
composure plays a role in the reality you console with self defeating holes.
Yet where do you stand now with your victory of triumph over me, a dream and a little girls gleam...in her eye? No where. You don’t even try.
Pry, pry, prying hands of falsehood aggressively reach for what’s left of my hope, wishing to dash any remnants of joy found within existing alone. Lie, lie, lying once again just to ensure you’ve saved your last friend.
Shameful resolve -overly involved
you cannot concede with what you never believed in. And yet you have so much to say, as you walk away. The faithless preacher, pointing the finger, never to linger as you dig your grave with those you can’t save.
Good luck on that attempt to find your next empty fuck.
