Temporary highs of your being
Take out reality
I'm forever tripping on the acid of your façade

I sober up
That is until you crawl back
Back into my head
And leach out all rational thoughts

I'm addicted to your high
And I'm ready to overdose
On your lies

m.h

We are the ones who feel
almost everything.

Squeezed like sun-warmed
wine grapes, pressed
like fragrant coffee beans,
distilled like kilos of flowers,
may these memories of our lives
become good poems.

I
Only a man harrowing clods
In a slow silent walk
With an old horse that stumbles and nods
Half asleep as they stalk.

       II
Only thin smoke without flame
From the heaps of couch-grass;
Yet this will go onwards the same
Though Dynasties pass.

       III
Yonder a maid and her wight
Go whispering by:
War’s annals will cloud into night
Ere their story die.

Oh woe were I a painter, impressionist in craft
Painting pictures in emotion, instead of photograph
Because there is no color, no brush-stroke I could sweep
That could capture her, or the wonder that she keeps.

How she silences all my senses remains a mystery to me. She numbs my core but yet makes it beat rapidly.
  My insides turn to jelly whenever she gnaws at my belly, when she sinks her nails into my back and bites my bottom lip like a liquorice stick.
  Some others would call her a bottom **, but there's so much more to her being than being more than a side chick.
  She sings melodies which resonate with the hums of my heart when we touch,
much of which is far from lust but is purely just.
  To me she's more than a nutbust, she's more of an infinite ****** from which i cannot overcome.
                        
                    VS
my botttom ***** she.. changed the scene, I: the  bottom *****, loved and gave in once again, Into all the blissful ******* she spewed using her tongue.
Her tongue numbing everything...everything except my hands clenching, gripping knuckles turning white, my teeth drawing blood from my bottom lip.
she walked out, leaving me , bleeding , aching core. she left my house, my little bit of heaven.

Calls at 3am , the top, begging to be let it and just like that the words " go **** yourself " stuck in my throat yet my arms are missing you.
  i turn to mush when you make that face... this is why i remain in the darkside, feeding the demons you supposedly killed
  these demons were fed with lead, resurrected and led by madness.
Rage!
    or a caveman savage!

Or..
i could call her over  and offer her some tea and muffins, from a musket.
Hemp rope and hang (with) her, bound  by invincible chords to the Lord but what more could i ask for but harmonious love from broken keys.
Broken keys for broken hearts, broken hearts deserve shotguns to pump bullets into the minds of those who sugarcoat the truth.