That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,
For slander’s mark was ever yet the fair;
The ornament of beauty is suspect,
A crow that flies in heaven’s sweetest air.
So thou be good, slander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater being wooed of time,
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou present’st a pure unstainèd prime.
Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days,
Either not assailed, or victor being charged;
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy, evermore enlarged.
If some suspect of ill masked not thy show,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.
I pretend I'm dead.
If I lay still,
And be very, very quiet,
I'm no longer there.
Dead like this.
Than facing the masquerade of reality.
It's better than
A plastic disguise.
An ugly face,
A fat disgrace.
I can pretend,
That I'm real.
I can feel.
Not a defect.
Comes the waking up.
alcohol has a lovely effect
does that mean without it I am defect
cos when I am tipsy, I'm precarious,
even been known to be adventurous.
I thought I was the dis-inhibited kind
I live life fully with an open mind
but a drink or several enhances thee,
a wanton abandon surfaces you see
and when my lover returns to me
we always enjoy a little drinkey.
Noiselessly, the world has begun to defect.
From it chaos flows like blood trailing an abcess,
the poison itself long since passed.
Ash and flowering flame.
The sinking of an eyelid like a blue vault sleeplesness
sits with folded arms.
Peeling words from the walls,
This obsession runs deep untill the desire itself is broken and wasted.
The sistine eye , the twisting thigh.
If dead skin says nothing, than it cannot lie...