Bittersweet

Touched by a lover’s conscience wouldn’t be a bitter thing
So why does the world question my soul from my mind,
My heart from my gut,
My love from my sadness?

It wouldn’t be the coffee that I tended to drink every morning,
The copper coloured liquid that burned me only seemed to give a sour aftertaste,
It was sweet,
Yet it was utterly harsh,
And even if it plans to make me jittery,
I drink too much of it,
It isn’t my lover’s soul, so maybe it’d be best to let the coffee sink down the drain,
To detach every scar from its harsh burn,
To bury every pain with the cold liquid creamer,
It is too much for me to bare,
I don’t want to be singed again,
So why do I return to it’s menacing fluid?

He isn’t the tea that grew cold,
Too heavy for me to carry with my delicate boned fingers.
Even if the tea brought warmth sometimes,
I couldn’t bare find myself to take another sip of the nearly empty cup.
It brought me light touches,
Yet a painful bitterness of it’s unsweetened mind.
Another liquid down the drain for a pained drink that never stayed the same,
That isn’t my lover’s soul,
So off the dark brown tea leaves go away as I remain thinking of the one who’s hands touched my refined heart.

My lover isn’t the alcohol many people seek,
And even though I’ve never touched it one bit,
I’d knew it would burn me the right way,
It wouldn’t be cold, nor hot, nor warm,
Plain neutral.
It seeked me out in the right way, but I wouldn’t want it,
I wouldn’t want to be touched by a sinful sensation,
It would only bring amnesia and an aching heart,
A migraine and droopy eyes,
A never ending pain in myself.
It’s golden cleared colour was a devil in disguise,
Pretending to be an angel it’d make me forget to be myself.

It seemed as if everything I drank and never want to drink
Is always bittersweet.

But maybe there’s a change.
A change in a man who is my lover,
The purity, fluidity, mystery of a drink so delicate, cold or warm it does me the right way,
No change in me, or who I was,
He stood by me on my darkest days.
This was the change I was willing to take.
He is pure, like water in it’s crystal clear stance.
How long would it be, until my colors changed him
Clean and free to
Bitter, sweet.
Touched by a lover’s conscience wouldn’t be a bitter thing
So why does the world question my soul from my mind,
My heart from my gut,
My love from my sadness?

It wouldn’t be the coffee that I tended to drink every morning,
The copper coloured liquid that burned me only seemed to give a sour aftertaste,
It was sweet,
Yet it was utterly harsh,
And even if it plans to make me jittery,
I drink too much of it,
It isn’t my lover’s soul, so maybe it’d be best to let the coffee sink down the drain,
To detach every scar from its harsh burn,
To bury every pain with the cold liquid creamer,
It is too much for me to bare,
I don’t want to be singed again,
So why do I return to it’s menacing fluid?

He isn’t the tea that grew cold,
Too heavy for me to carry with my delicate boned fingers.
Even if the tea brought warmth sometimes,
I couldn’t bare find myself to take another sip of the nearly empty cup.
It brought me light touches,
Yet a painful bitterness of it’s unsweetened mind.
Another liquid down the drain for a pained drink that never stayed the same,
That isn’t my lover’s soul,
So off the dark brown tea leaves go away as I remain thinking of the one who’s hands touched my refined heart.

My lover isn’t the alcohol many people seek,
And even though I’ve never touched it one bit,
I’d knew it would burn me the right way,
It wouldn’t be cold, nor hot, nor warm,
Plain neutral.
It seeked me out in the right way, but I wouldn’t want it,
I wouldn’t want to be touched by a sinful sensation,
It would only bring amnesia and an aching heart,
A migraine and droopy eyes,
A never ending pain in myself.
It’s golden cleared colour was a devil in disguise,
Pretending to be an angel it’d make me forget to be myself.

It seemed as if everything I drank and never want to drink
Is always bittersweet.

But maybe there’s a change.
A change in a man who is my lover,
The purity, fluidity, mystery of a drink so delicate, cold or warm it does me the right way,
No change in me, or who I was,
He stood by me on my darkest days.
This was the change I was willing to take.
He is pure, like water in it’s crystal clear stance.
How long would it be, until my colors changed him
Clean and free to
Bitter, sweet.
Touched by a lover’s conscience wouldn’t be a bitter thing
So why does the world question my soul from my mind,
My heart from my gut,
My love from my sadness?

It wouldn’t be the coffee that I tended to drink every morning,
The copper coloured liquid that burned me only seemed to give a sour aftertaste,
It was sweet,
Yet it was utterly harsh,
And even if it plans to make me jittery,
I drink too much of it,
It isn’t my lover’s soul, so maybe it’d be best to let the coffee sink down the drain,
To detach every scar from its harsh burn,
To bury every pain with the cold liquid creamer,
It is too much for me to bare,
I don’t want to be singed again,
So why do I return to it’s menacing fluid?

He isn’t the tea that grew cold,
Too heavy for me to carry with my delicate boned fingers.
Even if the tea brought warmth sometimes,
I couldn’t bare find myself to take another sip of the nearly empty cup.
It brought me light touches,
Yet a painful bitterness of it’s unsweetened mind.
Another liquid down the drain for a pained drink that never stayed the same,
That isn’t my lover’s soul,
So off the dark brown tea leaves go away as I remain thinking of the one who’s hands touched my refined heart.

My lover isn’t the alcohol many people seek,
And even though I’ve never touched it one bit,
I’d knew it would burn me the right way,
It wouldn’t be cold, nor hot, nor warm,
Plain neutral.
It seeked me out in the right way, but I wouldn’t want it,
I wouldn’t want to be touched by a sinful sensation,
It would only bring amnesia and an aching heart,
A migraine and droopy eyes,
A never ending pain in myself.
It’s golden cleared colour was a devil in disguise,
Pretending to be an angel it’d make me forget to be myself.

It seemed as if everything I drank and never want to drink
Is always bittersweet.

But maybe there’s a change.
A change in a man who is my lover,
The purity, fluidity, mystery of a drink so delicate, cold or warm it does me the right way,
No change in me, or who I was,
He stood by me on my darkest days.
This was the change I was willing to take.
He is pure, like water in it’s crystal clear stance.
How long would it be, until my colors changed him
Clean and free to
Bitter, sweet.
 






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