What has manifested remains to be a smudge on my cup.

My attitude is subtle but yet I carry the filament of misanthropic morse.

More so, tired of the paradox that remains erroneous and overwhelms me with simplicity.

If the knife could slash in the sleep the groves would feast, the tingle would reach a peek that finds fulfillment bleek.

I would like to care but betwixt by my perspective I've adjourned to the asunder that hopes.

The smiles remnant remember eschews the positive attitude and always sees the worse.

I've tried so hard to eradicate the hoarse sound but it lingers as a crush who fantasies.