Air
Everyone likes pretty things.
The ocean,
Mysteriously blue,
Let it capture your lungs and bam, your gone
The sunsets
They're so pretty
But dare to touch
And there would be nothing left of you to touch
How ironic
We find beauty
In things that hurt us
And rarely find beauty in things
That we can't see
Things that might let us fly,
Or set us free;
Like air...
Oh,
How ironic.
-m.c.-
11:18 pm
set me free
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