I'm the real synner,

the first and the only.

Don't try to be the winner.

This competition can be lonely.


See - we can't honestly compete

if we accept that we all play in the same song.

As different instruments, we find a way to cheat

maybe even string along a few wrongs.


Overhere! Come listen!


I've found my own crucial beat that I dance my life through.

Though its always incomplete I've found it's not worth you.

Despite our real heat I'm not an object to screw

or a name on your sheet of women to pursue.


Gotta love that synful goodbye

and the crimson memories -

a duet serenading my mind

while my heart is the accessory

to the assult of your lie.


But here I am, possibly a little too late...

on a scale of one to ten, with ten being a catastrophe,

we soared at an averaged eight.

So now I applaud my stupidity

forever believing our rythyms could create

a unique dance only we could see.


I take a bow to your tune

as I wait for the other half of mine

to find me - it will be soon.

Until then, I admit yours was too fine

to ever allow this one to ruin.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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