Lost Descriptions Of Life.

Maybe I can turn around this block.

Something so tragic, so 

Lonely about the fragments

Of truth you piece together of

Things you used to believe.

How, in turn,

You believed everything you

Saw and heard, the 

Naivety of our youth.

Oh, how horrible,

How much you wish;

You dream of nights

That have passed, and

How much you want 

The things you 

Used to have.

Selfish idioms that work

Upon the imagination;

Painting works of lies upon the

Scarred tissue, 

Erasing the worst of what 

Was once good.

And oh how you miss them,

Those people you used

To know, spent hours talking

And living your life to the

Fullest extent.

It all ends, so abrupt,

So badly obscene,

That you hope that one day

That you'll live that naivety

Again and again.

But the more you reach,

The further away it gets.

For that is reality,

In all its' glory.