You keep me anticipating and all the clocks I surround myself with are throwing exasperated fits.
It's time to be done with this.
But I can't, I can withstand the lies, and the multicolored feelings of hate, passion, forgiveness, and love.
It's too difficult to shut you out.
Finding sanity in a cloud that isn't gray and full of premature rain and hail.
A hard bargain.
A sickness some would classify and though the trumpets and abrupt instruments support my liberation from this prognosis.
I find it unlikely for them to sound off my victory for my escape.
I commemorate the moments we shared with sex, food, kisses, and talk.
But all of it was a procedure, a thing you do when finding women that would sacrifice dignity, self worth, and individuality just for one look.
I'm terrified of an existence without the feelings you release from out of me.
Though the crying and days in bed seem minuscule to the elation I find myself having when you are with me, near me, and sometimes in my bed.
Atlas, reverence for you is like giving presidency to a dog.