What is it that one realises while at a face-to-face interaction,
With morbid realities and mundance truths?
Something I've always loathed doing.
Unfortunately, something that
has always been put forth me.
An impromptu realisation:
My brand/style/niche of poetry..
can be classified.
No Verse, apparently.
Not that I intended on it being so.
I write because I can.
Also because, I like how letters construct words which construct meanings.
A rather fascinating process.
I like how my incoherant thoughts
come out and sound.
I realize how poets can be read,
can be analysed,
but deductions about their allusions,
can never be accurate.
My thoughts have no linear progression,
No clear direction.
Pin-pointing an exact reference seems impossible.
Absurdity and fluctuation,
concepts that are troubling me.
Can only the Beautiful be loved.
In that way.
What is it that one deserves?
Can we compromise? Should we?
"Where are you going?"
She will always be my number one.
No replacements, and no definitions.
Life will continue with utmost normalty.
Not seeking reciprocration.
What will happen to the girl with the lower lip dimples?
A vicious, vicious circle.