I tell myself I write these words for no specific face,
But I can't lie, to my mind's eye, when placing them on pages
Bound in leather, held together, by the loves I never knew,
Doesn't matter who I flatter, still, I dream of you.
Your name, as sweet as honeysuckle, passes through my lips,
I miss the sin of your silk skin beneath my fingertips.
Thinking thoughts of drinking, drowning memories turned blue,
A million months of nights spent drunk, and still, I dream of you.

Growing flames will turn your name into a cloud of ashes.
A flowing mane remains untamed through whirling dervish clashes.
Beating hearts as hope departs through valleys long and winding,
Burning sun, you turn and run, the path ahead is blinding.
You always knew I wouldn't do, so why'd you even bother?
Pass my time by penning rhymes and double ******* lagers.

Taking notes, sitting in the back of the class,
People around me act as pleasant as broken glass.
Marked up notebook full of toxicity,
Aching for the days of childish simplicity.
The kid in the front called the teacher a ****,
And none of these ******* will shut the **** up.
I don't even care, cuz I'm smarter than them,
But once I make my fortune then they start to depend
On me paying my taxes while they sit on there ***** poppin out ******* then preaching to the masses about how they're being oppressed, this place is a mess, I wanna walk into the hood and take two to the chest.
Cuz nobody cares, if they do they don't share, that's why my only goal is getting the hell out of here.
Out of this town, out of this state, off to where the leeches won't steal off my plate.
Somewhere with people that still wanna learn, not content to sit back and watch the world burn.
I'll set it on fire, my burning desire, is to grab everyone of you and tattoo the word liar,
Across your face, so you'll know your place, and you'll understand why people always called you a ******* disgrace.
You take, and you steal, and you bleed us all dry,
But I'm out, I quit, break chains and and un-die.

I want you to look into my eyes and see shelter from the storm of society and selfishness that smother our spirits and leaves us broken and alone.

I want you to rest your battle beaten body in my warm embrace and know that the wars of yesterday are over. That you can lay down your arms while taking up mine, leaving the attacking forces behind and staying home to defend that to which your heart has been entrusted.

I want you to hear my voice and know that nothing else matters but we two. To know that calmer, gentler times are on the horizon. Times safe from uncertainty and fear, loneliness and solitude.

I want you to accept my hand in yours and know that, from this moment forth, everything will be alright.

The mystic Mys-Match of Mew Manor mounts the moon at midnight. He flies freely, forgetting the faltering fallacies that fold this failing facade of figments of the imagination and inglorious nations into a crooked caricature of creeps, clowns, and carcinogens to our culture. From crack and **** to casual deaths, the population prays for post-******* match days.

What's the reason of rhyme if you don't have a reason to see a new season of sweethearts and treason? The mystic Mys-Match of the planet Piblatch has snatched nary a glance of this reprehensible romance. He hums happily, hovering over the homes of the hurt and the helpless, unaware of the ugly and untrue souls of the suffering below.

Due in part, perhaps, to the planet Piblatch, whose population prowls playfully amongst the pipperplitz plants and the tinktertip trees. A civilization unaware of Gods and demons, *****'s and dip *****.

At sunset, the Piblatchians partake of rackaday root and crushed up clibber clatch cuttings. They see the psychedelic sky ways that sing of sweet things and spacey swings.

As mankind manipulates, murders, and maims itself, the world which waivers with weakened wings is consumed by the carnivores that **** off the common crowd and leave only the corrupt and cantankerous crooks that fall to the depths of despair when the bomb goes off, blotting out humanity's light forever.

But the mystic Mys-Match and his planet Piblatch live on, past the end of time itself. The peaceful people continue to enjoy their lives and never know of the negative notions that drove the dimwitted denizens of Earth into a violent and gruesome grave.

Mankind could have learned something from the Piblatchians, if only they had opened their eyes and seen the light.

The world around me slows to a crawl,
No one around me knows me at all.
I look over the crowd of familiar faces,
From various times and different places.
They laugh and they play, one and another,
All with secret pains, I’m just like the others.