Self-beclouding weighs
so poorly overrated,
and ages quick to old
for one unstable poet;
who empathize the waves
and glides through all the blocks,
elastic by the maze,
a shadow missed by rocks;
where loving never cease
within his soul's lagoon;
of boiling sensitivity
that bleeds split second soon
so dull disappointed,
why leave the light;
that glimmers short before
you fell your eager flight;
but why get overwhelmed,
why fully get consumed,
into the lifeless void
you helplessly pressume;
to be one comfort zone
amongst peculiar places,
when you're its comfort home
inside your brain-like mazes;
but you did still,
so did I;
'guess loathing still pursues
you harder when you lie;
perhaps, when it does lie,
perhaps, the clouds for shade
for barriers shall be there aligned;
outside the mess you made.
