In the bottom do you often crave to cling
to the  cliff  only to temp its edge?
We change for season  bask in regret.
Every dose  dangles crumbles the thoughts vanishing ledge.

Chaos is home storm my welcome call home.
The sands now painted red.
Thoughts remain no matter the shore inwhich I roam.


Fight of change struggle as of life.
***** are the waters.
Dull as lies the mind set towards change sharp
as the knife.

The streets smell of  battle with a tinge of insanity's reason.
The fools gaurd stands tall.
Stand strong without doubt within the killing season.

On thoose sand's, The innocent bleed and the selfish
ignorance of hatred always demands.
A face of many will overshadow the  lies of one.
Bullets and bricks  crush the same none of which
can cut to the truth as thoose fired from the minds gun.

More than a revolution of angry shouts raised in hand.
Time has become history.
My thoughts bleed now somewhere apon the sands.

The sweat  from her skin but a creation of passion.
In the rapture of plessure no prisoners taken.
Rage made passion, plessure made the moment.

Inside from the storm the encounter was torment of the best kind.
The bed creaked as a ****** end would only inspire more vivid
desires.

More than *** was a moment of two bodies colliding
on the plessure cast road to release.
Flesh meeting and all false manners cast aside
the primal motives always kick in.

Her body was a shared experience theater for
of a wicked plessure.
Her skin pure in such a jaded since.

Tommorow would the moment be lost in some sort
of awkward  rythm of stillness.
Two stranger's who need reason to meet.

Or would the true self speak above the moral  code.
The drink of life I so wish to drown within tonight.
Naked  thoughts bared scars.

We would venture  back to circles her's would view her
a ***** for knowing happiness.
And mine would yern to only hear of conquest but
see in mirror and dream with deaf ear.

It was a plessure to embrace chaos.
So may we drown togather again.

It's like a distant call of a well known ghost.
Change breath's heavy apon the wind.
She yerns to know the other end of rejection.

Two broke souls rich in the passion of a uncertin day.
No money can touch that excitment of  just what comes next.
Sweet mercey  we exist on a favor we cant repay.


A old radio and room no bigger than   postage stamp.
***** windows give the best moonlit visions indeed.
Five star dream's I'll take a greezy burger and cold beer
my  hand inbetween her thighs.

Her eye's speak the  direction we shall take.
A devilish grin a twisted snake of plessure
leading to a old bed's dusty retreat.

But millions can't taste this moment.
Inside her plessure I grasp a key turned towards
the locked vessel to which she does give.

My nights are rich in splendor.
And  a endless river  in thought.