Beauty in the dark nature of romance

You can fake everything but your feelings.

I feel I've been going blind.
Because I regulate everything.
Even when depression hits.
It's a protest of hostility hidden deep inside of me.
How does one find the pretensious world as it surrounds you.
It is a cause of perpetuity.
Where everyone wants to last forever.
It's a toxic environment filled with a host of black flies buzzing around...
They make those zooming sounds.
Zooming zooming around.
Dead in your ear drum.
You could swear they just die in there.
A rotten death.
Where flies enter never to come out again.
So how I regulate things is not by death.
But by mourning.
Somberly so.
Such striking design.
Where intelligence meets its end.
And nothing appears equal.

We are all this shallow and you don't know how.

How alive you can be without necessarily feeling it.

Or isn't it another propositional form.

How can you feel alive without everyone else agreeing.

I am unsure which of which is more alluring.

Maybe never.

The smell of Brandy or your refined taste of (romantic) language in thought.

The small yet skinny fortune of your physical figure.
The luxury of a dollar store and everything in it.

Fire flies in the face of reason dancing at night, defining the recession of your true god like nature. I like it here.

And the abnormal nature of dying...
What is alone living your own heroic death without romance...
Are the final thoughts of my final resting place will be...

(Though I wish everyone knew it.)

This the hearts of hopeless romantics...
A sadder story never told.

My mind is drunk on it.

Against a psychic that won't lie.