John Doe and Convo (8).
I called, and came to John Doe crying.
He was impatient and nevertheless,
leaning his favour towards.
He mumbled, " What the fuck do you want?"
(I honestly could not bring myself to question or answer.)
I gave him a sob,
an eerie sound orally prancing straight from my heart
to the mailbox of his chest.
This was a letter, a note, a written plea or
a red balloon-
but he was no worthy recipient.
nor was I a wonderful and charming giver.
I crumbled and said, " It's nothing much, really.
perhaps, a rupture, a threadbare carpet, she says.
A scathing scale question like no other."
He caved in and stroked my head.
I caved in and thought I fell for him.
No one could tell a falsehood from another falsehood,
but everyone knew.
I dyed my hair black, but it was never enough.
Then, I pushed him away, but it was a sympathetic
and sad clown I could have packed into a bag and shipped away.
He shouted vehemently (with no malicious intent, bless me), " YOU ARE A WITCH!"
I got frightened and bent over.
I concentrated on a rough stone the size of my fist, and the length of your tongue.
That was a solid (CUTS! CUTS! CUTS!) not unlike what I was feeling.
But then, it gradually turned into a spiral of reunion, and a mad, sad transition.
He rambled on, "You can try reversing. You can try reflecting. You can try rewinding, rephrasing, retreating. ERASE! Resolution, resolution and resolution! You have easily turned away."
I was not listening.
I could not help looking at the ground without thinking "you, everything, parallel."
I had my tightly capped eyes on an image of you drifting unto the shores of an island.
He was on the verge of giving up;
I was drowning,
drowning
and on the brink of you.
He was impatient and nevertheless,
leaning his favour towards.
He mumbled, " What the fuck do you want?"
(I honestly could not bring myself to question or answer.)
I gave him a sob,
an eerie sound orally prancing straight from my heart
to the mailbox of his chest.
This was a letter, a note, a written plea or
a red balloon-
but he was no worthy recipient.
nor was I a wonderful and charming giver.
I crumbled and said, " It's nothing much, really.
perhaps, a rupture, a threadbare carpet, she says.
A scathing scale question like no other."
He caved in and stroked my head.
I caved in and thought I fell for him.
No one could tell a falsehood from another falsehood,
but everyone knew.
I dyed my hair black, but it was never enough.
Then, I pushed him away, but it was a sympathetic
and sad clown I could have packed into a bag and shipped away.
He shouted vehemently (with no malicious intent, bless me), " YOU ARE A WITCH!"
I got frightened and bent over.
I concentrated on a rough stone the size of my fist, and the length of your tongue.
That was a solid (CUTS! CUTS! CUTS!) not unlike what I was feeling.
But then, it gradually turned into a spiral of reunion, and a mad, sad transition.
He rambled on, "You can try reversing. You can try reflecting. You can try rewinding, rephrasing, retreating. ERASE! Resolution, resolution and resolution! You have easily turned away."
I was not listening.
I could not help looking at the ground without thinking "you, everything, parallel."
I had my tightly capped eyes on an image of you drifting unto the shores of an island.
He was on the verge of giving up;
I was drowning,
drowning
and on the brink of you.
