but we’re boring.
there’s nothing interesting happening outside of what this flesh hides.
words that come outside are plain
truths closer to lies
and our beliefs,
nothing more that dreams that change as soon as we fall asleep.
and nights– nights.
what comes comes and what leaves leaves
as we witness the world get molded by people who wear suits.
eyes open wide, we stare from old wide-open windows
and give reason to everything– even where it lacks.
humans are beings of love, but love we cannot.
we just pretend,
striving for what others have but we can’t have that.
we can just get drunk, drugged,
on ideas of beauty, love, on ideas of what ideas lack
and then fall asleep.
happy at times and sad at times and broken at times and confused at times and craving too much and wanting to much and feeling too much– only to find out that we are just as others are.
we were born for this, just like everyone, but changed along the way;
outside of things where things happen, outside of places where people meet, outside of the stares that look at you as though you can give them something,
we found our truth; lame as it may be.
everything will happen as it should, everything must happen as it should, everything should happen as it should…
we see others cry for things, and we cry too. different reasons, same tears.
tearing through what we know, searching something we don’t seek….
we were made into here, we became what we feel.
boring, the definition itself,
boring, as boring as someone might get.
why would anyone stay?
when we, ourselves, would have definitely left.