Comfort in shoulders or leaky eye sockets.
Arms aren't meant to move boulders,
nor an odyssey,
nor a prophet,
just an oddity,
Tiff just stop it.
Always saying now when I really mean later.
Some solidarity felt when they say 'her'.
Blurred into faded reds,
smokey rooms and fresh made beds.
Now those feet are made of lead.
Looks like the wound bled too much.
Always too much.
Always sacred Saturdays and scared of lunch.
Hutch roof, small bricks.
Every 'I'm sorry' is seamless,
it seems this is the only way to hate me and with or without the means,
it's succession.
The moral of the story was to just let the rest in,
or maybe just the best win.
Proverbial wishing well wishing to sell you.
Consciously corrupting the Gods of social science, and they're compliant with bright eyes in the darkest star alignment.
Yet, we're silent.
Comfortable with defiance.
It's how we handle each other and how we use the term brother to recover what is left when you see obsession like a mother.
Confession of the covers used to smother,
the feeling that comes when you let the rest in,
and it's true that only the best win.
Fin.
+
Chose to stray or maybe just wander,
a lonely little lady who's reality is to ponder.
Formality is shallow water to the serpent daughter,
as shallow as knights deaths to salute honor.
No wonder.
Plunder is taken as wealth and mistaken awakening knowledge of self.
Lawless is homage to the Gods whose hands have dealt.
We skin solely just to earn a pelt.
The soul leather tethered to make a belt.
Using is producing now acknowledge how you felt.
+
My 5's look like s's.
A pretense, she's precious.
No longer a princess too proud of defenses.
No senses.
No penance for previous possess.
A necessary act of one's own,
impetuous behaviour.
A pervert, or so sensuous a savior.
+
Am I doing this right?
I say I'm sorry when I'm blindly in flight.
My mighty manger,
a nest with twigs and bits of danger.
Will you be my Reilley's Ranger?
Wasteland savior?
Messiah I wish to savor?
Pardon my behavior,
my brain waves get stranger when you're near me.
I'm enamored,
grinding the enamel just to say something that mattered.
+
Found stuck in the loss of one's own composure.
Modernist poser still using the term 'doser'.
A true dozer dedicated to the arts of smoke cloud closure.
It's "Yes or No, sir.".
It's never really knowing but pretending to be so sure.
We're only ever showing our sharp teeth when it snow's hurr.
Motion blurred away the memory of 'Keep it steady, B.",
Stung by a wasp in the part that let it be.
So let them see the reaily arched axe filled with poisonous panic attacks.
It's only malice.
And if you knew that you'd've never followed the rabbit, Alice.
