These dirty knees tell a story
this story has a hidden meaning
I hid it myself
from myself.
The meaning is misconstrued.
Run away from reality.
Hold your breath.
Release.
Recoil.
Realize
Perfection lies before you.
Perfection is often a perfect hell.
Perfection is often impossible.
Sometimes it's always impossible.
If perfection is anything,
pefection is a silent city,
with thick walls of stone,
and gimmering white lights,
tall towers
and perfection,
perfection is written all over your face.
There's a certain sparkle to your dust.
It's written on the lines of your heart,
on the lines on her hips,
its witten on these lips,
and it's in the laugh which escapes them.
It's my name sprawled across your chest.
It's your smile.
It's acheivment.
It's this.
It's this room with it's walls and decorations and imperfections and cracks like skin.
It drips from every single pore of yours,
every single hair folicle.
Every seaquin you ever saw.
Every crushed diamond,
injected in your veins,
so your body is heavy, and I am weightless when I'm with you.
It's in every quirk of every being.
It's in effections,
before they lose direction.
It's in blue velvet skies,
and the colour of blood,
every first kiss, and every goodbye fuck.
It's missing you when you're gone.
It's the instinct that drives us
to believe
to hate
to love
to learn
and to run.
Run.