There’s a letter I’ve been writing to you
Trying to write down all that’s true
But I keep ripping
Stitching
Erasing
                Everything
Because nothing feels right
Our love was as a star is bright
And as we shot for the moon
                You carried me
High,
Above the blackened sea

Where I’m now drowning
Deep, and out of sight
Help me end this hurt tonight
Because I can’t take it
I can’t fake it
I can’t shake this

Burden rock which sinks me
As I struggle for the light which guides me
The current keeps winning
I’m no longer swimming
It is still
                Calm
The sea surrounds me
In this deep blue light
No burdens to hold me tight
                Serene
Peace, flows through my veins
As I tell myself it’ll be okay
But I’m not done fighting

No
I wanna see the stars
Gaze at me from where you are
Because I know
You learned from your mistake
You let me fall in all your grace

I fell through the surface
And sunk below
That glass ceiling wouldn’t go
But I threw my burdens
                At that wall
And shattered glass flew up tall
Where it stung you
And you looked down
To see me lying on the ground
You lift me up
                Up, and away
With a smile I see so perfectly
Within all of your imperfections
Even with my misdirection
We end up here

This sun so bright
And we are blinding
With our love tonight

I wrote a love-letter to my demons
on the soft, tainted skin
of your back.

Sin has a name
Shaded on you,
in black.

A diagnosis of masturbatory insanity
is the inevitable conclusion
that I, as a fellow onanist,
debaucher of sheep,
and baby goat buggerer
have bestowed upon your befuddled mind.

Your insistence in frequenting
the Heinous Sin of Self-Pollution
and self evacuation of one's seed
with mutual onanistic pursuits of sodamistic bed fellows
and other anti Christian pursuits,
have finally brought a visitation of madness
to the perverted soggy mess
masquerading as your brain;


If one may make an
advantageous suggestion
to your befuddled self,
it would be to seek out a restorative nervous elixir
or wrist strengthening electuary,
the former of which would aid in the
"compos mentis" of your good self;
and the latter is extremely efficacious in the
soothing of onanist wrist
and vinegar stroke eye.

but alas; neither is of use against the
" ejaculatio praecox " of foetid poetry..

your Servant, Obadiah Grey.

Secretary for spermatorrhea conservation

Paint my smile on at night, and it's smeared off by dawn
Need to set all this right just so I can move on
These things that I love, they aren't letting me breathe
Don't need a sign from above, I'll just pack up and leave

I used to think maybe I'd wait and he'd show
Taught myself not to hate time for going so slow
Patience is nice, till it starts wearing thin
That's when biding your time starts tasting like sin

Fool me once, fool me twice, do me wrong, make me cry
Did you know this whole time I've been telling a lie?
I was never the victim, just a generous crook.
It was me using you. Oldest trick in the book.

Am I sober? Not really
Does it matter? Not at all
I meant to do this in person
Instead settled on a call

You see I've been thinkin
You may think that I'm jokin
Because it came with some drinkin
And whole lot of smokin

Yet, please believe me
What I whisper, in your ear
Although my thoughts mostly hazy
My passion for you, remains always clear

I no clue if you feel
Here the way that I do
Girly I'm tellin you real
I don't have to be drunk
To say I love you