Contusion, confusion, no conclusion, a freight train of pain. Love falls like rain, washing away worries, miniscule flurries, like the old stories. It feels impressed and preserved with the seal of years of Clark Gables and fairy tale fables. Til thunder strikes and pikes the spikes of divorce and diverge, of difference and distance. We run like ants, everything to fear, losing everything we hold dear.
I am insane, inane, sick of games. I want you happy, you make me sappy. I want you content, you make me resent. I am deranged, drained, and proclaimed. I am vivacious, audacious, and free. This is what you make me.