10 months ago

The lyrics are all mine.
The image was generated using Leonardo.ai.
The voice and music were generated using Suno.com.

Here are the original posts, from 2019:
https://www.facebook.com/share/p/19dM2eSNvV/

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SUPRIYA

Most people have partners but, for my part, there's just art, so don't fuckin' get me started but I am already; part of me's just damn confetti when she's absent, meaning all I feel I'm ever set to be is far less than even a full third-wheel mentally; just colors over the heads of those wedded to weddings if they read this at a wedding while I crash and burn in the setting, with my blues so deafening I'm getting into a state of depression; unfriended and discarded trash shoved into a bin, with a sense of hardened oppression, 'til I'm compact like my lines if I write: 'I need better unpaid attention!'/
I don't even get a mention in her thoughts/
Every second when she doesn't text, I'm over my cell like a fish out of water on it, like it's too comprehensive; more than a bit/
Her presence is more than a hit/
Her breath more than I can ever spit/
Her touch more than my wit, in how uplifting it is/
I sit waiting for our combined fate to call my name but if I'm to blame for inactive states it's because by vocal brain comes with a side of sustained silence, and since I've been abandoned before the only move I make first is to abandon her helping foot by any open door, in using feet of distance instead as lines for these feats of forming mental building blocks of tortured scorn with lyrics/
My mental state means it's mandatory
that a pen to the pad, unplanned, should slam into my hand for a story/
I'm pushing it with feet, but a pedal to the metal leaves me just inches from the edge of my seat/
Why didn't I just see a movie instead of speaking incessantly?/
Why was I saving money but not saving integrity, coz I honestly don't care about a penny/
My mind's a penitentiary fit for change, it seems/
I'm beggin' any goddess to invest attention in me,
and intentionally/
My heart is like a pension; spent every week/
I'm gonna grow old from this tension, like Dawson's Creek, until I long to be out of bed again just to at least be weak at the knees/
This is a line
that I'll write
to skip;
to cross lines when I find something wiser to spit/
That might be this/
I might be hit;
met with a bow from a Nepalese cupid,
with his arrow's passage sending me to the moon on a two-way trip;
to see the world, before set-telling on Everest's summit,
with the one who caught my eyes, like no one ever did/
I'm held in place by her ever presence, and wishing she'd be ever present/
She's heavenly and heaven-sent, with heaven's scent
and the situation's gravity makes mountains tip
'til what's on the tip of my tongue spills into these lyrics/
Just being in an ordinary couple on the ground is bliss/
Call that a couple of lines; just graffiti on my heart; on my sleeve, like a wrist, when the beat's quick/
I'm hypertensive/
I'm yearning for the deep end to only lonely stints on me; on this; on wit/
Humanity should come before profit/
But profanity is all I can spit,
and knowing this, I swear I want you too to do this/