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I give to you my beliefs in a pretty package
My lies I spew onto the unforgiving for what have I to lose
My weakness is unforgiving too
A shrewd is a man that pertains to my existence living in denial and soaked with sin
Distinctly I manage a word or two that perhaps has a miniscule sense relating to truth
But it is vanquished as mysteriously as it was born
And in the eyes of the devil is my attention sworn
Who is it with rage when I scorn on the pitiful
Dutiful is this indulgence to terrorize the the gentle
All in me the birds flock to block a question
A question essential for an opening of my severely charred brain
Circles in circles in circles in circles
Ill follow these determind to find but a twinkle
And when I do I realize it was just in my head sadness engulfs my attention as my hands turn to dread
Dark and flaky with a grim motivation
Sinking my teeth into things that sucks me into the ice
one leg is gone when will come the utter demise
For it feels this way tonight
Yes...like opening a gift
Yes...like opening a gift wrapped box from tiffany's that has something like cat do-do in it. I know someone who actually was gifted that once.
...and he asked her, "do you write poetry? Because I feel as if I am the ink that flows from your quill."
"No", she replied, "but I have experienced it. "