The lake.

I'm trying to let it out, here, for about two hours now.

It feels like the words are slipping from my brain when I try to catch them.

The only thing I keep repeating in my mind is:

I felt you like a deep, dark, still lake, in a concrete and miserable, gray jungle. 

And all that is left is the ethereal scent. 

I never really wanted it to have roots. 

But just as mother nature, feelings grow wild. For me, at least. 

It seems to be unattainable trying to cutoff. 

It is not like the so called butterflies in my stomach. Not anymore. 

Being pragmatic enough, fells like a hard drug withdrawal. 

No, it's not really pleasant.

Pungent and annoying,

this is what it feels like.

Horrible.

Can you feel it?

___________________________

Up here it's me, feeling pissed with the entire world.

And with you, too, my dear.

But I don't mean it. Would never.

Ever.

The feeling is the same still. Like coloring a book... Under a fucking thunderstorm. 

But coloring a book. In black, and red. 

But the book is special.