The fine art of bulshitting

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.