The unsung hero, the war torn fighter, the over anesthetic every day human. The feeling of sobriety, the feeling of remorse, the feeling of thoughts that have made your interior oh-so coarse. The lustful loner, the attention craved whore, the broken shattered feeling of a tear-ful divorce. The ringing in my ear, the lack of sleep that I have yet to crave, the feeling of dissatisfaction runs down my heat embraced cheek.
The two suns that I witness every day, the hours that I pass with every waking moment, the cigarette's that have yet to be burned, the sarrow that has yet to be felt. To miss, to be passive, the accismus feeling that I began to dispose of.
The eadness of my life that is yet so portrayed, the sadness of my life that is so concealed, my hautain spirit and my boastful laugh, is what keeps me so well sheltered from the comfort of others.
Take pitty on those that you loathe, harken my words for they will only be said once. Ponder yourself and wonder am I that which disguises myself? Who are you and what you do, hidden treasure or dubious provocateur.
I'll tell you what I am. If you tell me who you are.
