Into a lunatic's drive,
I disheveled my car
It was made of melons, pineapple and figs
And an apple fish head ****
It has dead flies
Into the fiery lake, my Lucifer lives in a monastery
I rotate my cross
I hood my disguise,

My lucifer is made out of lies.

They are strangers;
They talk about the sun, the leaves and how they made love when they were seventeen,

They are strangers;
If I may, I observe the spring as it succumbs to a hurricane,

They are strangers;
They evolve from chimps
They drink from their failures and dive into their sins

They are strangers;
They are like metal bars with rust

I am a stranger,
And I'll soon evolve
Into dust.

I keep bowing down to you,
You are mine to keep.

It's time I'd forget that
And wipe my tears and go to sleep;
I'd find somebody else

I blink and I deceive.

I want to sit in a bathtub and cry
And sniff the steam and the pain
And the meanders and harrowing clean snip snap of my veins

I'd submerge myself into a land of pirates and ships where limits are endless and I sniff the steam from the engine's gate

Only to see that there is water beneath

My feet is dry and I submerge to endless breath and void
My Skin defeats the straight of sin and I am left with no choice.

My bathtub is the ocean floor and fishes gleam and glow
My childhood is crying next door
And I, am no more.

I had sunken to a ***** laundry bag
Midway to Okinawa, Japan.
Between withering away and weathering my eyes,
The dim lights of a downtown pub
Kept me surprised,
I'd like to recompose an absurd childless song
Where they tell us to clap our hands
And shout hurrah,
I would like to recompose happy
And use satisfactory, naivety
Meticulous synonyms to replace an absolute
Drastic, silly if I may!
As I wait for my birthday countdown
And live for a lifespan of ninety,
The leaves of an old, cultural Norwegian hymn
Lala with something to begin,
In the light of the momentum that
I am cutting cake and waiting to die,
Happy seemed hardly worthy to express
The nativity, nomenclature or if so I must say,
The happiness of the world.

What have I come to?
A dearth of longing's
An absolute catastrophe that I'd give birth to melancholy:
And absolute failure of a sheep in a tutu
And regress and turmoil that Miss Penny Shelly could compose
Magic:
A heart warming missing and yada yada nature with yada yada poetry and a he and a who and spring:
Poetry could mean anything

Or so they think.

I break down and my hands shake,
I am a man,
I breathe nicotine.

I am a man and clench my fists,
I drink like a mad broker who lost his deal.

I am a man and I cannot cry,
My masochism refrained me to do so

I am a man and I lost my pride
I' trapped in a woman's body for years now

My ******* say I lie
And my hips are made for birthing and wide

I'm a man who lost his woman
And he dug his grave last night.