These Are Us

Your inner angst, so well tiled over, intimidates me in the least.

At most, it makes my lashes tremble

As you stare intently into my eyes,

Circling them like a vulture.

Like a hungry painter trying to memorize some smashing lifebeauty

You constantly sway on the edge of depression

Because you know you are not talented enough to capture it.

These are my eyes.

You cannot have them.

If you possess them, you shall learn to twist them around

And see through them.

And these lenses are not good for your vision, dear;

It is already wrecked, and you don't need further complication.

This is my smile.

You examine it like a young biology student

Messing around with his very first frog.

Don't mess it up.

This is your sadness,

Reflecting in these, my eyes,

Like a dark pond reflecting in a pretty puddle.

And this is me,

The sad blissful one,

Whose bliss is disturbed only

By the odd pleasure you derive

From childish wonderings in the regions of

Angstland.