There really isn't any reason to see this---it isn't for the one who gaslights me simply because she's unable to love me. We need an excuse to hate someone when love is thwarted---the physical sees to it that love is impossible. The piano, for instance. There's too many keys. Don't let the social media censors see this poem, either. Bureaucrats of exquisite taste, don't let them see or censor me, please. Drink water. Have a little dignity.
Love on top of life finds a way but the difference between the two is a problem. Practical me, crackhead you. Life rounds us all up, lines us up for death, We laugh and enjoy it with every breath. We are not afraid, because fear is insanity. This guy was shocked at how everything could be solved by practicing the piano daily. Practices. O he practices. He's become too skilled to love. It's a skill to love the skilled, especially the skilled who need to practice these kinds of poems which subtly indict the reader (Were you there? I thought there were two.) and are a bit too complicated, and kind of scare you.
I failed, again. I need to apologize. Seeing isn't good. Seeing is for gaslighting spies.
