FEAR CITY

Outright cries for endurings and negativity bites the bolster, For I was once a lobster fulfilling ninety to a million scrapes. That was all I knew. 

There's a time in my life where I was born, for good measure. Cared for in delicacy. Love is the root of all things meaningful. 

And then you grow up and curate some sort of meaning to it all, as you're picking at your nails wondering what's for dinner tomorrow. People leaving when they get the chance, it is always a matter of time. And your father will tell you "don't bite at the hand that feeds you” so you do because he mentioned. There is still a lobster, and now it's on your plate. 

Bedrock and itchy knees from the ivy you weren't meant to touch. 

But it's okay because you're still young. And they'll keep telling you that before it's too late. 

Root of it all there's still mending in the closet where all the frontmost is eating at you, and away. As there was always a need for feed, a wondering at night if love, loved itself…And even then you were mortified. Everything became a symbol and grief, lucklasters and extremes, and leaving the door cracked extra when you cried. There was always a mean to be seen. 

And we took a trip down to fear city in the middle of spring. beginning to beginning, and leads to feeling righteous. 

And there they held boxes of our loved ones and every dire probable cause. Clashes of remover and a will. There we were born again.