i'm tired of my paradox
completely contradicting to reality
with a twist of nonsensical fiction
and a pang of pathetic poetry.
in my dreams, you love
but in reality, it's black.
i guess irony is part of imagination
and so is this color addiction.
i wish you could tell if
dreaming about you the way i do
because it's the only way you'll ever
find how thoughts of you
follow me like a plague,
and how memories of you
torture me in a way not even you can.
i'm sorry if i'm saying
all this crap
because it's not like we can
blame all this on the church doors.
AN: reviews are very much appreciated :)