by Chris

Not my object
Confusion comes quick now
With my deceptive messages
Something somewhere lost
In subjective translation
And nothing brought to mind
Faster than what you want
To see.

Sorry for the inconvenience
What's not given easily
This I struggle to find myself
For more than just you
Desire unsure for all
And that of just a voice
not her own
Turns my head
For once.

Take those thoughts
To someone else
I cannot deliver
What I do not have
Any longer.

Thursday January 25, 1996.

Chris is a 19-year-old student. He enjoys writing short stories, poetry, and cycling.
General information: Jeff Walsh
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