Can we be together,
On July 14th?
At the perfect palace park,
In some kingdom far away.
Six years from now,
We'll be in Boston,
Strolling down the shores.
Hand in hand,
I'll trace my finger over the ring,
I placed on yours.
Together forever,
Separated never,
The same word,
Written in different fonts.

The lonely liar, in search of a lair to lay,
Stumbled into a fancy French place,
Somberly he sat at the bar of burdens,
As he asked the witty waiter for something he'd never had,
Cautiously the character considered,
Then after a monumental moment of thought,
Brought out a blue bottle of *****,
Precisely pouring a pint,
Laying it in the hands of the lustful liar,
"What is this?" He wondered,
"This," the tender told, "Is a liquor called Love."

Human beings,
Akin closest to the creatures of the void,
As we consume.
Dictates of wrath falling from our hands,
Onto tablets of conversational truth.

I am conscious,
I think and do,
Still I consume too.

Leeching off the fuel writing gives me,
I run, an engine breaking through rocky walls,
Testing the boundaries of inspirational energy.
Aching with the feeling of being restrained,
Tortured by carrying,
Some few echoes of truth.

Living life is a painting scheme,
Creating colors to cover up the blanks,
Trying our best to break away.
We re-saturate,
The bleak shades of our face,
Replacing something organic,
With chemical compounds.
Suddenly evolving beyond natural gleam,
Distorting to fit twisted cookie cutter shapes,
We execute the order,
Of this lustful modern god.
There was beauty in the earthen iron's shape,
Forgotten glory, bent to grim reality,
Turning away from standing in the looking glass,
Becoming indistinguishable again.

The heat is irritating,
So never argue under a blistering sun,
Though you shouldn’t wait until streets are iced over,
Rage will freeze into cold, logical things.
Tear water freezing in between,
In the kind of way that makes you miss the rain,
The steam rolling off an anguished face.
When there was heat and humidity,
But no rainbow,
A little too much of something broke the recipe.

Occasionally I struggle to write,
Eyes glazed over late at night,
Drinking ink instead of ****** wine,
Breathing in antique paper smoke.
Chewing on pen tips,
One slips, I cut my gum,
Tell the dentist it's a canker sore.

My soul whines for true release,
For me to free myself from the foolish games we play,
But instead, me and Spotify play the polo,
The Gentleman's shuffling game.
So the night wears on,
I udder not a single yawn,
Lost in dark times,
People say they're scared for me.