Lazy from C-Z

Feels I am dancing mad for sure The birds would sing in unison Where words are gone and feathers undulate The lone rooster then losts in tune And if by chance the hens dominate He gives himself into the disguise There always is one that draws him in Even if none of them fall under the spell So then we act the fool and wait A weeklong agony, a fistful of despair O longing bring the birds back their flair! Give the man a one for heaven's sake It's not every day joy slips into view When as slippery as slime it bleeds mocked Heads will roll and we try again Three hours worth of fantasy in a world where make-believe is an empty endeavour. How can my murder rejoice to this then? Week after week after week Then goodbye, nothing more How droll! Prithee bring me back my hopes and fears!  My tragedies and desires! Nights spent awake in excitement Over joy, over hope, over love, over you.

How long is a week to someone dogged by some unresolved vitality? Not too long perhaps but the feeling is nevertheless torturous. To chase the wind and have it easily swept away in an instance, there is no life ever so lonelier. It becomes sort of a motif in this routine to wake up only wanting to go back to bed and hoping not to break free from a more tantalising fantastical reality wherein my smiles are fully-formed and in actuality more recognised than here in this very plane we are in, where there is more of isolation and ignorance than pleasance. It is simply not right - to chide man for the everyday coincidences of life; this beauty is far more encompassing than ever thought realised. It is then to that reality that a man, even if he or she is one step ahead of every one else, will always remain in this plane of reality unahead; the illusion of their observed advantaged is neither misplpaced nor mistaken, it is simply a matter of perspective.

Would it not have been that a good rest is hard to come by and simply by living felt like walking through a deluge It would be that I am nothing more but a plankton in it and that my one wish, unbeknownst by many, is to fly just as any pig wishes to do so themselves. To swim is arduous; to fly would be immaculate. But truth hits harder than when I hit a random face with a brick: I am but a fry. One day it will be I will cease to be, so will the waves that come crashing down dragging everything and everyone that came before along with it. It is nigh impossible for me to give an ounce of care to anything else especially now that I wrought this in stone. Only my primal instincts keep me from completely crumbling down and caving in, with which I am clearly not proud of. What is a fry to be when out of its element? Where is its school and where do lost fries find a new one? How do they acclimate in newer waters? If other fries have done a way, why coul...