There are things that are better left unsaid.
Like cuddle fuck and waking up inside a stranger's bed.
We've common thought analysed this thing till it was dead,
now bring it back to sunny days and tummy's that were fed.
Please bring it back now.
There are things that are better left untouched.
Like pigtails turned double dutch,
fists slips to wrists when it's too much.
Not perfect,
but this, that and such.
Night time tales of turn table wails pale compared to thick rails of white trails.
Sick, sorry, frail compared to the mail stacked up.
Paper airplane or paper slut.
Paper sail away from the dishonored daughter cause the good things always fail,
right?
Some things are better left to-
Better get out of my space don't even leave me a letter.
A feather from a postal served marriage proposal,
observe.
They were a set of sweet talking street pervs.
Retrospectively their reaction to passion was absolutely absurd.
But word,
there's no reason to strangle the past presently,
a pleasantly consecrated ensemble proposed a remedy.
Two can talk to construe what's been thought but one's heart can't be bought while the other's distraught.
What's been sought has been seen,
now the rings start their gleam,
an irrational amount of light through them concentrated to a beam.
There goes the sun again.
---
Weekend benefit with kids so benevolent.
Irrelevant,
the way we tend to defend then put an end to it.
Now what's relevant is the way we spit intelligent,
humorous pun filled throws of handled wit.
Handle this.
Weekday warriors with battle fists.
A pissing match of who's heart attack was more realistic.
Misfits born sadistic will flick the wrists like magic wands conjuring some thing mystic.
No one told you to be about the ethics,
the message of the story was the fact it was an edit.
Misread it just a bit too much to make the first clutch,
the antics of the character you wrote in can blame a soft touch and the mistrust displayed as too much panic when it gets rushed.
I can't handle the pressure of making the lines of the feather tether.
I don't want to write rhymes about fate and stormy weather.
There's a fine line between 'define what love means' and when you jumped off the cliff only to make a scene.
I can be mean.
I can be shallow.
I can be obscene with a dream or a lazy fucking asshole.
I don't always make sense and that's perfectly alright except when you feel the need to claim that I'm really falling from my height.
With all my might I tried to severe golden string.
All my life I really agreed that the ends justified the means.
Forgive from stab wounds and clowny faces during night binds because it forms rhymes in crunch time that make my value more like a punchline.
And that's fine.
It's just fine.
What's not fine is the fact you ain't mine.
I'm not yours and we're too scared of the words to use when justifying the terms.
Maybe this chemical burned you but the burn wound is practically you saying
'learn to be a better choose.'
Whiplash on my back went from a gash to a light brown bruise.
You get it right when books delight you with pleasant news,
but honestly I'm a storyteller and somewhere we got confused.
---
