The time left on Earth is relative now.
Every second by your side reflects a drop of water,
— and every humid touch is a violation to my sanity
Inside this body there is a trap,
A conscience that moves fluids
— boiling through small veins to feed on
There is blood and tears in this war.
That trickle down the same path,
— a fruit surrounded by rotting flies
Clouds following a predictable pattern
Creating figures that mean nothing
— a cloak that hides truth
Concealing ourselves under a mask,
Acting like there is freedom
— till every lie bulges out of a hole
Black holes that devour truth in a vacuum,
Deteriorating lives in a prospective
—- where we initiated a meaning.
Falling into an eternal pit of emptiness,
Searching for value that we take into our bodies
— running a blade and inserting it quickly.
There is a countdown to every move,
Already predetermined or assumed,
— a manipulation that plays wicked games
A trick that we can’t see,
Sensitive fingers driving up my skin is one,
— a superficial passion a being permits.
To be loved and find meaning in a pond,
Where time has always been relative to its existence,
— and you were always a fish caught in a net
Drowning in an addiction of pollution,
That kills you slowly but you adore to endure
— a masochist living through a delicious situation.
When the time comes where you decide to stop,
And morph into a sadist again, inflicting pain on my mind,
—-there will be a garden with an open stream that leads to a tree.
There are no pills to relieve pain
in a conditional world.
— there's only truth.
Truly yours with affection.