New Year and all is unwell

I have tired of a little too much conversation, sated my appetite for spewing syllables to mask the silence that enshrouds our lies. Too much that matters needs mentioning, but I would rather stare into the future and reinvent the past than tell you it is we who cannot last. The tedium drags me to a realisation that I am not meant to know, that I am not meant to love, that I am not meant to show myself to a world to dead to earn my concern, to learn what it means to yearn for a life we should want from birth. The problems of two mean so much to you and little to them in a world of clashes between war crazy men. I cannot calm down, I cannot adjust, to a place without thought, a life without lust. I sacrifice myself to a life undone by a love for you that will never be more true because of who you are to me and who I was to you.