Our drawings are wild,

Our writings are wicked,

Our first pages vary ,

But the endings look flat.

The rhymes are splendid

The chimes are restless.

 Isochronicity speaks loudness,

But the endings sound flat.

Your mound is tender,

Your folds speak texture,

Your rocking is tender,

But your ending is flat.

You smell like cider,

And you taste like nature.

But the truth,

Tastes bitter.

Looks blinding.

Smells putrid.

Feels like fire.

Sounds like thunder.

So tangent,

So close,

That I wither and run hither,

From All My Senses.




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I am me. I am Me. I write when I want to be free.

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