Blooming beauties of insignificance,
     short - lived and dieing the whole time,
        lying under a clear blue sky and all there is to do is wish for night.

We hold onto our mirrors.
We clutch our masks of silken red.
     Red is the color of vanity.
     What is sensation to a world of beauty in the eye of the beholder?
We conquer ourselves with narcissism,
     drowning in our own lushes lips,
        our own words of praise for the life we think we're suposed to have.

At full bloom we can no longer hear the orchestra,
     harmonizing beauty into emotional instability,
        we are cold, frozen with winters black hole heart
Smoked visions are all we have left.
Those that are perverted by the still burning lust for ourself.
     We ride the coat tails of a fairy tale.

What is it to feel?
     To hurt?
We bear these scars of personal battles,
     when there are feasts to partake with those who care.
     What is it to cry?
What lucid beauty falls with a tear.
There is no semblance of love like a tear.
     What is it to love?
In vain we search for who we are,
     when we can be told by the pure love of friends and intimates.

With a teary dissposition,
     and loved ones so far away,
        I sit in the dark with a cigarette and this flashing screen.
Rolling smoke and the all but subtle sense of a perfect moment.
This moment when I felt.
Those who made me feel.