The bright hue of Scarlett.
The warm scent of new.
The heavyweight of sorrow.
The belief of love renewed.
The reality of intention and deception.
The thoughts so dark and grey.
The scope of fame and fortune, with clickbait, added each day.
The whores attitude of your attitude towards my existence.
The ego you blow up and in my space, the knife stabbed through to mitigate it.
The blue blocks of builds hiding the levels of coerced promotions.
The white lines of the show you glamorise as actualisation.
The whisky you take straight on a Tuesday afternoon.
The roar from my heart at the sign of a new moon.
The rust from your mindset as it’s set in its ways.
Love me, love me not I don’t care anymore, anyway.