What?

It doesn't mean anything anymore, am I lost or do I choose to be stored in my bare soul, holding onto what I don't know? Intuitively, I've written a million of these and they've done nothing to help me, I've gone further into the abyss of lost dreams. Straw dreams. Vibrant, hollow themes. Following impossible scenes, plagued by schemes desiring things which I fear. I smear my heart and the paint's too thin for the canvas. Can this loneliness repressing my fucking love leave me to admire the dove. Marry me, like I did with misery, and I'll be saved. I won't have an affair, I won't fuck regret. I won't hold the hand of innocent failure, and watch as it gives me a kiss. Run.