It seems like forever, trapped inside this horrid misplaced eternity. Steadily shrinking into that dark hole of mediocrocy, I already know I'm nothing special, nothing to be remembered.
"Here Lies Another Dead Angel"
Something generalized to save from the embarrassment of leaving an unmarked rock in the midst of memorable markers. Listening to the footsteps trudge across the dampened grass above as they scurry to continue on with the same inconceivably predestined meeting with eternity that I have experienced.
What was I, that I deserved such an insignificant existence? Why was I, if it mattered to no one but myself? Struggling to live up to that organized superficial phasod, that someone with such an average unmistakably futile attempt at beauty, could never live up to.
It's almost like being a weed in a rose garden, eventually the gardener will find you and pluck you out so that you don't take away from the beauty of the landscape, when all you wanted was to perhaps mask the fact that you're just a weed by merely coexisting with even the scent of beauty. And in all the world of seemingly understanding sympathizers, with their tales of lonesome wanderings, who seem to share the same feelings of misplacement and abandon... I am still alone. And so are they.
Which also brings to mind the questions that turns in my brain like a spinning wheel, turning over and over, yet spinning out nothing but the same thread in a constant search for the end,,, who am I? And why am I here if I mean nothing to anyone but myself? There's supposed to be more,,,
... isn't there? ..
What was I, that I deserved such an insignificant existence? Why was I, if it mattered to no one but myself? Struggling to live up to that organized superficial phasod, that someone with such an average unmistakably futile attempt at beauty, could never live up to.
It's almost like being a weed in a rose garden, eventually the gardener will find you and pluck you out so that you don't take away from the beauty of the landscape, when all you wanted was to perhaps mask the fact that you're just a weed by merely coexisting with even the scent of beauty. And in all the world of seemingly understanding sympathizers, with their tales of lonesome wanderings, who seem to share the same feelings of misplacement and abandon... I am still alone. And so are they.
Which also brings to mind the questions that turns in my brain like a spinning wheel, turning over and over, yet spinning out nothing but the same thread in a constant search for the end,,, who am I? And why am I here if I mean nothing to anyone but myself? There's supposed to be more,,,
... isn't there? ..
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