CLAWING AT THE WALLS SCRAPING AT MY FEET
A Long Time to Get Ready
You look into the mirror, searching its reflection as if it's set to reveal some hidden truth. Are those glass shards supposed to reshape their portrayal of you? My time has been spent, but yours seems to sprint, the ticking clock merely a mundane soundtrack to your narrative. Always waiting, dishing out what you want to hear, but skirting around what you need to bear.
Here I am, clawing at the walls while you're lightly scraping at my feet. The floor's cold, but it seems fitting, a chilling embrace for the complexities within you - a mix of lovable charm, infuriating habits, and a tendency towards the dull.
I've waited, waited many years to see you truly ready, with no remorse, and the waiting has done little but make me an impatient man. Is it in the hurried strokes through your hair, a dance that's never quite satisfying? My tongue refuses to stay silent, spilling the raw, existential truths. You might not be what I need, but you're the unexpected prize brought in by fate's fickle cat.
If these words carry meaning, they seem to flutter past you, unclaimed. Unrelenting, you ask me what I think each morning, as if my opinion is the caffeine kick you need to start your day.
You look into the mirror, searching its reflection as if it's set to reveal some hidden truth. Are those glass shards supposed to reshape their portrayal of you? My time has been spent, but yours seems to sprint, the ticking clock merely a mundane soundtrack to your narrative. Always waiting, dishing out what you want to hear, but skirting around what you need to bear.
Here I am, clawing at the walls while you're lightly scraping at my feet. The floor's cold, but it seems fitting, a chilling embrace for the complexities within you - a mix of lovable charm, infuriating habits, and a tendency towards the dull.
I've waited, waited many years to see you truly ready, with no remorse, and the waiting has done little but make me an impatient man. Is it in the hurried strokes through your hair, a dance that's never quite satisfying? My tongue refuses to stay silent, spilling the raw, existential truths. You might not be what I need, but you're the unexpected prize brought in by fate's fickle cat.
If these words carry meaning, they seem to flutter past you, unclaimed. Unrelenting, you ask me what I think each morning, as if my opinion is the caffeine kick you need to start your day.