adinablack

Typing. Like music filled with techno noise and a trying sound with each beat different. They never do match. They're either harsh, or too soft, matters the user, I guess. Harsh slaps like harsh words. Soft touch like soft, silent voices. Alone. Person against the fence. Typing. Like one. Coming together, pulling apart. Creating sentences. Creating phrases. Become one. Pull apart. Edit the style you dream of, never good enough. Write something fresh, something no one else can think of. But how many times does something new come along? How many times until this new thing sounds repetitive? Repeat a sound. Repeat a word like repeating a phras

Through the dark and through the tears I met you in the Hall of Mirrors I didn't know you at all before And now I seem to all the more Your past, your present and your future A story of time to hold and treasure Of hopes and dreams lost and gained Of fears and scars all sustained A life that's neither good nor bad A life of confusion that drives you mad And somewhere along the journeys way I notice our likeness day to day And without thinking who is who I realize; you are me and I am you Complete with all my faults and fears I found myself in the Hall of Mirrors