I sat and wrote about my drips of repetitions.
Obsessing with the actual new thing. Taking dots of affection.
So predictable, little me. Always pulling the bad ass heartless bitch. No one else will be fooled, though.
I am, still, and always, the most easy going melted brain around.
And i keep my little cicle
As well as my little circus
Of awful repetitions,
Every now and then some shameless tear,
But how else could it be?
How long will it last?
Before, at least, i'm free;
Before this turns in another past?
Another you and me.