That I don’t wanna do this.
Get caught up in the rush,
Of sludge towards the sewer.
I’ll have to refuse and refute,
The value in sub-par and subterranean real estate alike.
I breathe in the smog,
That everyone assures me is benign,
Choking on the darkness injected that swirls,
Round my center,
Pumping poison to my entirety.
Fighting against the hate wave,
Evaporating any chance my oasis-laced visions had,
Fleeing with the steam from the pride tattooed,
Branding the lost,
Advertising ignorance like a cologne.
The humid scented air squeezes,
Forces out the confession that ties,
Me to those I keep at arms length.,
Tying my fate to failed mountaineers.
While clawing to life on a freezing mountaintop,
I feel the warmth of a familiar heroine coursing,
Soothing the cold fears of isolation,
With radiating familiarity.
If Loving You is Wrong