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,
Feels like fire.
Sounds like thunder.
That I wither and run hither,
From All My Senses.
i fought with Madeline in the dark
for stealing my line and leaving me black
my minds all blank and in that tract
its all just abstract and I’ve no bark
the rock songs do pound
and third graders are loud
their fists to the hound
to take a hint and nark my sound
So I stopped the toll taking
and licenced this soul stealing
poetry to look to money making
now that we’ve got stupid leading
let me be soul reaching, my harp
is lyric treading to find a warp
for your people pleasing Maddy Sharp as she’s gold digging while using my stamp
Choice is irrelevant;another supplement
In a dose for numbing reality.
A world maleficent;not a complement
To men teaching naivety.
We are considerate;spectacularly sane
Until life makes living a pain.
Then choice seeks relevance;becoming popular
In case man’s conscience becomes bipolar.
Choice is playable; a gentleman’s sport
With two Russians and a Roulette wheel.
God is the Croupier:holding the sacred fort
While he throws the ball for us to kneel.
It looks beautiful. My fist in slow motion,
Your bones in reaction, my love in action.
It was wonderful till earth came calling.
My knee came up then you were falling.
This is pitiful, our love is violent,
Till sores wed bruises; then I repent.
We were perfect; we are perfect and yet
still one big mess. Your love, turned towel
Soaked with tears, a broken frame that Felt my wrath, from another violent yet
Blissful lust for my fist. Our lovely home just a victim of another domestic.