This is me I will be around you When I need you most I will be praising you When I want things done I will be there for you When I need to bear out If I still can cause you ample of pain I will be calling you back and forth When I ought to know How strong my presence is in your head!
This is me The dreadful selfish edition of me That needs to cure the concealed pain Embedded in me by you.
Cursed me! Spell bound you! Wistful us! That took away all my bliss And left alone this egotistic me.
Yet it feels good You are the same old you! My version of foolish you! Who was and still is spare Any time, any where To grip this arrogant and selfish me!
It was a freak accident of epithelium under anaesthesia. You place a window on to a hollow brain. The money makes the monkey out of you. A green light blocks the fish, your memory, to swim in black thoughts. The
Vane glorious and absolutistic, though I defiantly, cavalierly, and blithely attest Yukon bet your (laugh-in) sweet bippy mine acidic breast houses anarchic, anti-poetic ballistic, barbaric, and bubonic cannibalistic demons within thy safely guarded Pandora chest atomic cesium clock timed to
What was the idea of charity, when you were hiding yourself from you? Was it a non-existence? Or you were writing an unseen anthology? Was that your kin choice for a reciprocal pain, inflicted in dark? Between right and wrong
I had a dream last night. It was very concise but interesting. Rather revelatory, but not prophetic in the usual way. There was a class with a facilitator encouraging input based on a lesson plan provided to the class. I,