If I could believe...If I could believe just as I had once more… I’d be in really big trouble.
:::But I took yesterday for chance:::
I’m in real big trouble. I’m too settled. Someone please call 911. Numeral fisherman never intent. Hired ends without messenger delving in the content. I just mention the bullets in my heart and the tears through my soul. Cold body. For a bulletin board. People. Warm feelings. Not for the therapist or masseuse. The fisher. Someone please call 911. Ever too peach. I’m never too sorry. Over here. Regional. Given too.
Sometime I feel just as my prison is breaking up. Every breath I found taken. Afound for another day sounding the alarms until my kept up winds twirl for another. Feelings. Held together by some stream... In my arms …appeasing me as I reach out for it. Calling it liquor. Sweet and with mask. The same poison I’m reaching out for. The poison I called out sweet liquor. No one knows about my trouble sorry and mournful. Sweated by the ways of days there are none evermore trespassing. What mattered today. I wanted nectar. That sweet nectar that oppose the skin, the weak, the one that makes me draw my catapult. He did well. He did wonder. He licked his lips. My good day… all you need for a good day is to have a good life. Still…to a good life becomes weak. Fashion. Evermore trespassing until I sway the stream. Suede. Please don’t call me that. I’m irritated. Fashion. Left alone in the dusk as the weak ready my arms.
A large sword appears. Colossus. The awaiting of tomorrow...wait. The fortnight beacons. I don’t care. The Fort Knight beacons. Tell me something. Is it what I thought? That pain between your legs held like stagger and sheep. The size don’t compare. Slowly...come here. I still don’t care. Colossus is a color. Meta for Holding all. Applicable…not to all. A fire emblem anal.
If I heard the sounds of tomorrow...again...I’d tell it like it is. Telling the people to look away and avert your eyes. Telling the people...mournful sorrows and hopes of despair that lack the empathy of the air you once caved...cave for… Must I…. Might I ask the lacking of taste for a greater nectar? That sourful drum of yours muster with teethes that stream of supremely taped tattered colors with the parenthesis of both blossom. Vindicated….Envy…. Never too away to smile. This world in its black and white tenses become color. I am no different. I am human. I cannot utmost the rest. My medial dials touch of tones colored of wrench and which glass I tend to all from its manorial hens of tape and take-must like baskets and bayonets and once more Lafayette. All that can left be said. Holy grail.