If I were to write an a u t o b i o g r a p h y, would you shlick your eyes to it? Glean my every molecule from it's pages; pick your meat biters with my ribs, run out and tell the world all about this unknown.
Inside that cylindrical container, a pseudo survival; j u s t a little m o r e s e a s o n: tongue the span of human nature, take it out for a spin; like you own it, stick a fork in it! These eyes are vacant; Death is home now.
Sole paragon, dreamland inamorata, spend a moment; drovvn me in your vvaters. Slake this surreptitious tongue, before it turns to dust, guide my hands hovv you see fit; there's no reason to not. Love can get you high but ... I vvill travel as lovv as you vvant.
I had no idea that we were this pathetic, stranded on our emotions - Lending out what we erstwhile harvested for keeping, hoping for something new; among this debris, that we call ... LOVE.
Send to press, this late night killer, fearful tears; a thick marrow: deep respire, O' claw at straw; an animal instinct, tsk,tsk. Eyes tonight, blotted out; reason is mine. You: bound, distended; beautifully, bleu.