I cannot read my right to be near you,
it could be my opinion instead of my perception of you.
Everything that is expelled using your vagrant, after work breath, you say is the truth,
and everytime you are asked you say that you feel good.
If that is so true
then what are your problems?
Equations of equality that make governments solve them
or are they greedy, lust driven heartaches
that force communities to shut their shutters,
all with the sound of camera actions
because of your stealth for intrusive destruction?
You cannot read what I write to be who you are,
someone I now know as nosey and insecure.
Those insecurities reflect in your demise for a taste of me.
I do not care about who you really love.
I know that it is not me.
Actions play such a ferocious smile on the face of what I believed was truth,
and that appears now as to have been something people knew,
you, better than what I ever did
and then I hear you toss in doors that you keep open for your select,
that's why you can't read what I write, because of your obnoxious sect.
Passing all of those rules that I see shouldn't be laws
because I saw you kiss, shake hands with, and make love to
all of those you said are flawed.
I can't read the right to be close to anything you ever were,
and that's exceptional—
To be away, thrilled by someone other than who you are.
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To notice that people do change their minds, sometimes, is a strange experience when it was said they wouldn't do that and it was done anyway.