Here's something you might be interested in.
To know in an instant your ip address is ready for delivery To ready my transmission accordingly withholding nothing releasing all uncertainty setting back an whole planet of recursive lists on carbon manuscripts play games with emotions and question why they exist? Hemingway himself couldn't find the words for why love exists and drove him to his ending madness his muse the world his fate the world I suspect his intellect was taken Not mistaken but brazenly captured by a muse he made his own Satan to abuse himself and write letters like a fire plays to heat a room left vacant I know such a muse in my very bones and taken I write for those anthems she created A string theory I lay waiting to unfold its mystery untold mathematics far to complected to control and yet I fake it I try with my mind to write my life as if it were but a taste a book with blank pages unfolded to exotic masturbation My father gave me three things in our short meet that marked a timeline I but waited for He gave me a book which I read and re read for it is a true inspiration (shantaram) Another a Moleskine diary, where you live in a construct of paper and pen The first page read " A diary lets you live life twice. Once when you live it & twice when you write it down" If only he knew the son he left in America was a writing fool The third a book mark. Two of these things I gave you. One you returned. The other I can only hope you hold dear. Another (one I didn't tell you about, which I may have mentioned in passing about but got construed with lover words, comfortably, complacency and a sheer neglect of having my muse direct a source in which I could connect) was my heart. Which I didn't really need without you.
Bastard
Or how my father made me and I am not upset and only live with one true regret. Tradding my 58 Ford for a Harley. Just kidding, my biggest regret was not loving you to the point of death and still I feel I could hold onto that bet While smiling I bet you a heart and Ill raise you the sun in its entirety till it burns you alive with a will you control in me ( And yo know it :) )
So it was written and when I write now she fills my books A train wreck her love on me mistook a simple flame for the cause of so much pain now I subject myself to waves and brain freezing stages of judgement passing time like a slave and swallow each breathe with the hollow reminder of what I once felt. I tasted true love once. It burns like grain alcohol down my esophagus and into a belly devoid of you Like a addict I lay waiting in alley and dark backstreets Trying to but catch a glimpse of My love, To love you ever was love. "It changed my Merriam Websters definition entirely." Or so some love drunk poet once wrote.
To know in an instant your ip address is ready for delivery To ready my transmission accordingly withholding nothing releasing all uncertainty setting back an whole planet of recursive lists on carbon manuscripts play games with emotions and question why they exist? Hemingway himself couldn't find the words for why love exists and drove him to his ending madness his muse the world his fate the world I suspect his intellect was taken Not mistaken but brazenly captured by a muse he made his own Satan to abuse himself and write letters like a fire plays to heat a room left vacant I know such a muse in my very bones and taken I write for those anthems she created A string theory I lay waiting to unfold its mystery untold mathematics far to complected to control and yet I fake it I try with my mind to write my life as if it were but a taste a book with blank pages unfolded to exotic masturbation My father gave me three things in our short meet that marked a timeline I but waited for He gave me a book which I read and re read for it is a true inspiration (shantaram) Another a Moleskine diary, where you live in a construct of paper and pen The first page read " A diary lets you live life twice. Once when you live it & twice when you write it down" If only he knew the son he left in America was a writing fool The third a book mark. Two of these things I gave you. One you returned. The other I can only hope you hold dear. Another (one I didn't tell you about, which I may have mentioned in passing about but got construed with lover words, comfortably, complacency and a sheer neglect of having my muse direct a source in which I could connect) was my heart. Which I didn't really need without you.
Bastard
Or how my father made me and I am not upset and only live with one true regret. Tradding my 58 Ford for a Harley. Just kidding, my biggest regret was not loving you to the point of death and still I feel I could hold onto that bet While smiling I bet you a heart and Ill raise you the sun in its entirety till it burns you alive with a will you control in me ( And yo know it :) )
So it was written and when I write now she fills my books A train wreck her love on me mistook a simple flame for the cause of so much pain now I subject myself to waves and brain freezing stages of judgement passing time like a slave and swallow each breathe with the hollow reminder of what I once felt. I tasted true love once. It burns like grain alcohol down my esophagus and into a belly devoid of you Like a addict I lay waiting in alley and dark backstreets Trying to but catch a glimpse of My love, To love you ever was love. "It changed my Merriam Websters definition entirely." Or so some love drunk poet once wrote.