The universe is tellin me that I’m swellin in with gifts– Even though your thoughts are swift– I rock the past participle presence in the chex mix– master the bastard but it doesn’t make sense. It may appear strange or incorrect but I feel like you love me and I love you. Whats love got to do? Love doesn’t pay these bills or put clothes on the babies backs. Love creates heart attacks– love is cholestoral fat butterball baby love melts the candle wax while tryna burn the midnight oil. Love is silly shit. Thats not life. Silly shit doesn’t equal respect. The golden beast of life is our big britches beggin for love from empty places where souls get sick.
Souls sicked on_ I build the bricks on, whatever sticks on, chewing gum and duct tape_Abruptly disgust wakes the part of my heart that hates_ I’m sick, I need a fix of oxygen to understand my thoughts again_ I woke up screaming with holes in my body_ We both, sucked up into lust, bobbing_silly, bougie, bouncing boobies dance in dilapidated apartment on the floor but nothing mattered when you looked into my eyes. I’m sick. I need to get well.
And thus I find myself in a “state” of Virginia_Prostituting myself for scraps of joy__I’ve got a bridge in Arizona, I can sell water toys__Thus to slaughter and annoy__the branded prep school golden boy__he wants to get wild with me__Thus always using stylists, drawing circles on my software_Its time to get SIC, to attack, my love is to big to fail_Thus my faerie minions do my bidding__Thus this is the beginning_ Thus “we” (sic) pissing poetry, bleeding prose, and crusting over my shit which yes, smells like roses. Don’t forget.
Thus always to tyrants. I fell for you once. Here I am again.
Now you move on and on, sadly (sic).