I can sit in a park and watch people for hours; their vague denial entertains me.
That or I crave naivety.
We have lost the art of discernment in this world.
I am no saint.
My impairment comes with a boy.
Cliché.
Unoriginal, but lays kindle to a fire that keeps me warm at night.
My mind dances with stories, trading scenes with memories.
Sitting here people take my lack of emotion as callous. I try to give an insignificant gesture of kindness, but I feel it come off crass.
Maybe it is because everyone is playing a role and I demonized a love for appreciating it.
I wonder what God expects of fallen angels.
Beautiful yet damned,
I fell just the same and when I see myself I’m not ugly.
So I wonder how I look with God’s eyes.
Are our sins redeemable?
Are we able to call ourselves saved when we rather enjoy some of our mistakes?
How many people are like me?
Who deals with an affliction of seeing beauty where pain lies?
And in a city of millions
Only think of one.
-AB
Wishful Thinking 
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