It's all in your head
They'd sooner be dead
Than walk on the road
On which you tread
Finding the patterns
That makes up their lives
All of their bullshit
Seems so contrived
Never to see and never to hear
What it is like, to only be near
Never to feel and never to touch
What it is like, to ever be such
The lady disguised as her uglier self is
The girl who decides when she has her wealth
To have her cake with croissants and cream
By being delight of anyone's dream
Freedom of passage and rights to lay bare
Her soul permission is obversely rare.
About Me
- Leila Rousseau
- Constant complainer, effervescent explainer, road rager, mostly moody, joke laugher, make believer, neverender, air breather and happy if you allow me. This is the incomplete scrapbook of Leila Rousseau's modernly artistic scrapings. Nothing is clear and nothing is really here. We can't all be inspired, and we can't all be interested. Be humble to knowledge, as it will always be greater and more fierce than ego and explanation. Everything here is my own, but I wonder whose I am. So I could pass on the credit, when I might make someone giggle, a little.
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