Those sharp pointed things that form
of broken things and feels
Causing wounds that seem to never heal
Such is literally every gift, given to man by another
"Hey Mr Cynic" is a justified taunt
Or maybe your stomach cannot stomach the truth
There is after all a shard of truth in my statement
That stands to correct your pink glasses wearing sight
If you should ask me, to maybe love or belong, or both
We can argue over belonging and love being the same though
Know that one can love but not belong, and vice versa
And both of those feels recede when set lines are crossed
Why then do I choose to be friends at all
Is another valid question, you may justly ask
If you should know why, then know only this
In my friendship there is no line to toe, no glory to bask
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