grey ( a poetry by hanson )

grey

These crevices doesn't feel like decolorized enough.
I looked at your dreary face and your drought,
drove away with the idea of escaping and you're drowsy.
I put my things back to where it is,
like an upper-class people, an aristocrat.
We passed the pastry store where we used to eat neapolitan ice cream.
Aligned with the line of lacking the authencity of your art.
It's a little bit tilted and the imperfect of the art.
The alleviation of the law still means that you're a person full with malice.
Your roses full of thorns, prickly with the fresh organic skin.
In a tight or secluded space, between walls, I'm holding on to the thought of nihilism, non-existent of the bursting words with chaos.
It's pulling me back and forth, until they scratched my arm with a long line wound.
Did you obliterate your useless thought?
With this mace and sword, I'm prepared for the great war.
This undying, everlasting, endless pain could never be safe, my love.
I'm a participator of a hard-truth-hits-home events.
But most of the time, I strive and walked my stair to the castle and find the most wanted, deranged person.
Silence and abstaining is not the first; important option to deal with dilemma.
It's differentiating the social status life between civilians and the privileges.