Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Brittle.

Wearily, wearing away. They're now scattered, a million little pieces - succinct in labor, tailored in love. Parcel of the same frame which once weighted, now fragmented to dissuaded chips. But isn't it easier to pick one now? You choose the most delicate and swim emotions away. The delicate deliquesce apace, the hardened disintegrating strongly. So what does that leave me with? Another frontier to claim? Or will this make delay conduct? To help habituate. 

Hello, unsure melancholy, intertwining those waking hours in hurried sunset, reaching beneath the dusted blanket -  without remorse, without any pangs of conscience, teasing away. And its not you, you wretchedness, that makes compunction reconcile. It once smacked of self confidence, now it annoys and riles. Quiet now, settle 'neath patient sentiment, this industry rejects riot. But racket did turmoil, tempting glum away, to the sway of astray warmth, dusting mud again. Ah, wounded, its not contusion that does you in! Its the weather commingled, stirred with an essay of haplessness.

Now, don't it hurt? Don't it discomfort effort? So you whack, shivering the glass, simmering the smug afternoon, a cleft ajar. And thus, you're like any one of them, rough against creases, fragility isn't fortitude, collecting a million many pieces.