A Ramble, Nearly In Verse....If You're Cold, Don't Poke Holes In Your Sweater

.....if you’re cold, don’t poke holes in your sweater, and if that’s your breath I feel, don’t pose yourself like death. If you want to laugh, don’t pretend to cry - if you want to feel, don’t numb your fingers in the wind that whips your hair. The wind that flows past is nothing more than an illusion of reality and perpetual existence, somewhere in it captured the accounts of yore, childlike innocence whispered through each tale. The path that this wind follows is merely conceptual, the one traversed by the feet of the knowing yet impetuous, who boggle their own minds with thoughts of nothing, reversed. Along the path are the stings of arrogance; haughty, self-assumed intelligence; a presumedly affectionate touch, defined lust; deceitful lies and cunning half-truths, all belonging to the same flower of pretentious beauty, the rose; a simple flower tainted by the errs of society, pressing down on tender petals, ready to give under the weight of such an irregular force. So...if you want to compose a symphony of roses don’t settle for mediocrity, but if you want modesty, don’t throw morals (or your fragile flower petals) to the wind....that whips your hair and numbs your fingers....and if the wind is cold, don’t come to me, I gave up on you; I told you not to poke holes in your sweater.

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let me know what you think about this and what it meant to me... after a few responses (if i get them lol) i will attempt to tell everyone what i'm trying to say

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