Afraid of living life in variance.
In vainglorious,
Not proud of the factorial desgin.
Theres steps to the madness.
Levels on levels on levels
She's a 3x4x8x7x125
Three by four by eight by seven by one hundred and twenty five.
Experimental data reigns here yet bows to detrimental denominators.
Watch your parameters!!!!
Rho your boat and watch the time!!!!
Just enough to keep you confused until you decide to restart the computer and surrender to professor neuse.

Here's the cue
I want to pleasure this life.
The heaven and sea soak in my hands.
I got the sky at my fingertips.
I got marina each time she drips.
Soaked, I even thought I'd burst blue
Wet hands and all
Without a single clue
I'd do it again
To celebrate

I painted my nails baby blue for you.

With salty eyes and a wet face, I come to tell you the story that has been rewritten.
I do not remember the time, month or place.
Just that
I had played with dolls that day
and waited to watch taped cartoons on replay.
The night was full, together and never apart from the place that I stayed.
A bond that felt genetic to the core of my state.
This night was the last time I felt whole.
The last night that everything was interconnected through time and space.
No matter how far I strayed every place felt like a home. Or at least not too far away.
Like monozygotic twins reared apart, I was never too far away.
A genetic bond that set the night and day.
Many bodies in one soul.
My mother left this day.
“I promise I'll be better. I'll sleep in my own bed. Ill behave. I won't ask for more dolls or bother you when I mess up the tapes. Don’t leave. Stay here. Look at me I don’t take up much space. There’s room for you here under my cape.”
Despite my efforts what was written was written.
Eventually, you came home and said you had found your place.
I’ve yet to find a place with an address I remember.

I don't know how to fix this part of me.
It's not you, it's me.
As much as I want it to be you
it's me.

Go far, run, and leave this place.
I'll try and keep it secret from the most selfish parts of me.

Monday nights on earth
A choice of two remedies
Warm me up at home or in the new place in westlake?
But first
Which way, to which way goes the winds?
Windy libra evenings blow all around me.
After all, what did I expect when venus stays above this part of town.
There is refuge from this cold
uptown
in the cafe on Lennox.
It was here that I met deep purple eyes.
The ones filled with magic, luxury, and the smoothest contact.
They cried the kind of warm purple tears that are hard to describe.
You taste like velvet feels.
You taste like twinkle sounds.

Have you ever had lavender hot chocolate on a cold Monday night?

Interesting because neither have I.

Peace be what keeps you dead.
Beneath these roots is a land of bone.
Desolate, lost, and never known.
Blossom buried herself in search for earth and church.
A place called heavenly home.
Sweet innocent flower, dont you know?
You're dead to them.
You're dead to thee.
You've been dead for about a century.
You killed yourself that night you thought it be better if you bloomed alone.
What did you think would happen in alley of the shadow of death?
You feared it. You wanted it.
You let it rip you too pieces and now your soul is scattered across the graveyard.
Rest now.
Chaos be what kept you searching.
Pain be what left you dead.
Peace be what keeps you dead.
My beautiful little flower.

Truth be told
I'd bet my soul.
I only get lonely in the mornings.
The cold breeds empty amidst the white light of the morning sun.
A good morning blue bird colors the hazey sky.
As the sunrise of solitude fills the air I ponder my soul.
I'd sell my soul if it turned back time to the place of orange sight.
A place in time before the silent night
To the place that lives in sets.
Where the sun waves goodbye and enters a full evening sky.
You are my only sunset.
I feel full at the peak of sunset.

-2.00 +1.50 x 180
I barely see
Through squinty eyes is a love that looks like Paris.
Paris shifts and shakes until out of the cracks a pair of lost eye glasses are found.
I see what you've been searching for.
A love that feels like Paris.
Congruence in the vision.
Discrepancy in reality.
What is Paris really like this time of year?
Can you hear it sparkle? Does it sing?
Tell me do you hear the strange songs?
Is it riots?
Riot chants fill the streets to which we must all sing along.
If I dare tell you I love you like paris nights
Move, oh move along.
If you dare love me like Paris songs
I'll be destroyed by daylight.
Paris nights,
in the name of good faith and a romantic stroll,
beautiful and strong.
The mist is married to ashes.
Dont fall in love with ideas you'll end up like riots on a Paris morning.
I dont speak the language so tell me what these words mean because I've felt them all along.
Je t'aime **** de cette ville.