Tweet

There's a little problem. A little situation that makes me feel off. There's this little problem, this lack of enough consistant joint.
The misery of being the one to blame for the weariness felt in the moment is unbelievable.
I cannot hope to tell someone something, and desire that person reads the true feeling. I cannot hope people to sense some incomodity when I say I'm the most comfortable person in the world.
I mean, I can, I should be able to with a perfect exception. I think it should be his duty to tell whether I'm feeling blue or green in a certain situation, without speaking any word.
But still, I guess I am to blame. How can you ask a bird who hasn't grown feathers to fly?
Though he runs, quicksilver, at constant godspeed, easily away from trouble. He finds the right escape, and I'm the one who always inhales the escape bomb's smoke.
Can someone ignite this flame? can someone wind this clockwork?
I'm getting away and I'm scared.
I'm, once again, facing the low points of early gained experience, and hastened life.
Sometimes, I want to fall asleep and wake up in a season or two.
Some other times, I desire to own a time machine.
And the lesser times, though still present and numerous, I'd like to shoot myself.