Crossover

A long highway of this vicious cycle

A million, billion, trillion, gazillion turns

Only to find myself at square one

Unable to step off the shattered glass covered path of nostalgia, mistakes, regrets; sheer imperfection.

And so I float, bumping against the transparent fibre glass walls that’s keeping me trapped,

subconciously enraged, subconciously frustrated.

My feet bleeding from that involuntary march with arms raised up

Surrendered to the succumbed force of the remorseful continuity.

The negative flow that makes up my pessimistic personality.

Then with an invisible hand, you tug on my arm, my leg, my neck, my hair.

A tug turns to a grip, the grips turns into a pull.

Yank. Jerk. Haul.

My fatigued soul wielded into your firm grip.

The impossible turns into the possible

The pessimist turns into an optimist

You are an epitome of a devious angel

Wind under my shattered wings.

What is ludicrous turns into a pragmatic desire.

Blinded by this nostalgic posture,

with the roots of its stance implanted deep into me

The nostalgic tremore embedded into my intoxicated head.

Your grip pulls me, heaves me…

Enticed into changes

Enticed into reality

Enticed into emotions

Enticed into optimism

Enticed into Crossover.

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