These days, we’re both learning
the fine art of bulshitting
the craft of not seeing
the mastery of absently talking to eachother
throwing strained, empty words from across the room
grenades in the desert, ready to bloom
an empty conversation, just to cover up the noise
the fury, the blasphemy that is being close,
pretending nothing was.
Punishment it is. Punishment we seed. Punishment we’ll harvest.
there’s nothing honest
about us.
I am the one shamelessly noticing
I am the one quietly staying away
I’m not the only one not being able to exhaust
my state
the pull
regret
Do you?
You’re the one with the prize
oh, the demonstrative kind
the winner takes it all, said someone wise.
You’ve got a better chance, it’s nice.
You’ve got a story and the glory
in your eyes.
You’re seeing the image of yourself,
a true, dignified man.
So why the chilling presence?
nothing was, from the beginning
missed eachother’s paths, I guess.
Hurt is all I’m seeing,
blending with rays of
trying to leave this behind.
I should stop laughing
when not feeling to laugh.
I am not sure
if this is truly worthy of feeling sad for
or if it’s just my mind
‘cause there was cruelty on both sides.
when all this will be left behind,
it will not matter
what kind of mistery we had.
Odaia cu cărți ( și alte cacofonii) 
As a Master of the fine art of Bullshitting I can identify it when I see or hear it. Unfortunately there are so many amateurs attempting this art that it seems to be degrading into poorly covered lies.
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I think everyone is entitled to a little bit of bullshit, when wanting to keep your cards to yourself, to buy some time to think and make a decision, or to simply revel in the fact that you can do it, for the art of it. But in the end, it comes off as a waste of time.
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