Cold nights and defective robots

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If I wanted to I could write for you,
A literary master piece.
Fake my way through mystery
And passion
Speak in a fashion that is not my native tongue.
I could dress the part; in what you feel is acceptable attire.
But that would tire me.
You see, you are not as important as a past self has deemed you.
I see no real necessity to have you in my life.
Past dreams of being your bride, although still ring through my head,
Can no longer be my only reason for living.
If this was a healthy relationship,
Maybe this would be me breaking up with you.
But that won’t ever happen.
We are the people who will never be healthy.
But rather together we torment our selves and break down our being.
Being without you makes me sick,
Makes me shake, and makes me loose all sense of self.
Where is the health in that?
I can no longer mould myself to your ideal, or what I perceive your ideal to be.
It’s a search for ones self, a timeless tale of struggle and fear.
But I guess that’s what has gotten me here.
Although an over used concept, it is not enough to say my love for you could move mountains.
Although mountains are very stationary objects, it’s the thought that counts really.
Living without you may break apart all my morals, all my plans and all my beliefs, but really isn’t that what growing up is all about.
And I live without you everyday so what difference will it make?
For once my mind will be intone with my body
Isn’t that an unrealistic concept.
Whilst I sit in snow and rising smoke from chimney tops, I dream of lands with taller buildings and busier streets.
If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere
Without you.
Because that’s the only way I can strive for success.
Without you.





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