Sadsack

It seems to me, as i can see, most types of things aren't meant to be, for states of being, schools of thought, are simply luxuries we've wrought
We being the harbingers of hatred known as people, and no degree of empathy we keep'll

Stop the stipulations of this life, ere we regulate the next one
Diametric beaten paths to die are the eternal questions, nothing to stress on

Have no misgivings, for the art of living is positively negated, quite overrated, remnants of dated ways

Walk on the grass, don't you know it was meant to feel?
Don't let a man in a suit tell you what is real
Don't you know hell is hotter than the diamond ring you bought
Learn to love the things you cannot touch

I've been trapped in quotidian rehashings of the life i've lived, the things i've never dared to say, so taciturn and turned away
And of the fairer sex i am a pallid scholar, but no extent of essays read will call her

Out on all the moments she usurped, so unreasonably infrequent
The egregiousness it takes to flirt is a miserable sequence, never obsequious

To her constraining, or my complaining, i feel but pain in the interim, easy to give in, harder to count the days

Time she stopped when she walked through the paneled door
Time i stopped theorizing like all the times before
Stop and stare, and take the stairs as a means of escalation
Whenever you think it's too much, it's never enough