I'm willing to take on the world on your behalf; I'll shred it down into minute particles of dust, thin enough to slid in your breath, but is that what you desire?
I can wrap it all in a few rounds of the clock; inside this clenched fist of mine I'd soak in all your wars and let you teem with the withering triumphs, but will that quench your thirst?
Will you not wage more battles then?
If it were to be done the easy way, it'd never throw the fretful fits on those countenances that suspected you to never make it out alive; it's an individual endeavour for a reason that I want you to acknowledge, before anyone else.
In the broad outside, there are wars raging, and they demand your blood; you're being crushed under the toes of this merciless, and ruthful world, and I could rid of it with a snap of my fingers if you implore, but you have to plunge the sword in your enemies' eyes yourself because they perceive you couldn't; and I have a secret for you, that they don't seem to have; I'm weak as well if you decide to conquer me; unleash the warrior, let the king be enthroned.
When you left though, i realised that you're as much to be blamed as me. Thank you for all your memories, thank you for the love that we shared, for all the understandings. But I disagree to you calling me fake; for I was only as fake as your shallow understanding of me.
You love giving out love, whispering snippets in the wind. I love accepting love, I hear them in silences. That's where it all went wrong, that's what it is.
You give out love without knowing the repurcussions. Love is permanence, you can't pretend to be loving, and unlove again in a heartbeat. Love is from within the heart. You cannot love if your heart can't find it. So either your heart loved me, or it never did. You're just kind, that's what it is.
Never say you love someone unless you do, my love. And I promise you (and me, both) that I'd never hear Love unless it's uttered in clear syllables.
Love, Somebody who thought the world of you, once. Somebody who wishes you well, always.
Oh drunkard in the middle of an hungry sea. The only bottle you'll get is the one with a scroll. Might lead you to a treasure or probably take you home. Or maybe it's just a blank sheet for you to write your death note!
Oh human floating in the outer space, You're the only winner in a lonely place. But why stop there? You can still fly high, But again, no matter how far you go, you still can't poke the sky!
Humans are creative disasters. I have witnessed them choking on their own words, vomiting hallucinations over harsh realities, digging graveyards of future with shovels of present and inhaling the toxic happiness, all in the chase of finding existence in the elaborated hoax called The Universe.