I saw you there, I kept the image in my mind, to feed my despair,
And your hair...
The freckles on your shoulders.
Your smell, your legs, like there were noplace and someplace, bulky and warm like Christmas at the bottom of life where everything was naked.

I carried my heart in yours.
You were the rainy-sun-danse, a novelty in a stormy-wood-wroten-backwoods. Indiana suburban mythology dictated of such a fair maiden, one born of wild disparity, from the family of spiritual cynics. I've come to admire you, that much I know. A mouth divided like Africa, arbitrarily and in a fit of greed, like a hispanic german jew, flouting her sensuality, folded harmony, sweet, messy, youthful, rude, a symbol.

You're my everything and I don't know why, two days gone and I was in so much pain, I figured nothing out.
If I were really inlove with you, you'd be inlove too.
And I love you,
therefore you love me too.

Your inconvenience, ******,
Is worn like a frown on your face.
I need a stern kick in the head.

And you're destitute, Destiny,
And reek like flowers, floorboards,
And nosebleeds.

And you ain't true, Faith,
You love him, and I'm broken,
Your machine is commendable. Truly.

You feel nothing, I feel it for you.
I bear your troubles like a Christ,
And you hate life, but I love it, and I love you.

But I'm a toad, Princess,
And my love is a spell,
And it spells discomfort.

With the few words left within me there is something I fear I must write. Beauty is everything, art is justified. It was a hard battle, but art has won. Dionysus takes the cup: Apollo, in a blaze of wonder and irony, has fallen, for this space is for dreamers, not for rationalists. Reason shall come shortly, but soon there will be no need for reason, I can assure you. First I must scorn in the face of every critic, whose airy words tried to stamp the artifice down the whimpering and broken throat of the victor, which is the artist; I must point and laugh at the woman that shrivels at the sight of moral beauty, and the man that seeks entertainment, rather than enlightenment, for you are all fools and cuckolds to your well-loved rationalism.

AND THUS WAS HIS REASONING

Beauty and truth both lay dormant in every soul that has walked the Earth. Every aesthetic piece gives breath to its own truth. Truth, because it is admired, admired, because it is truth. Expression, the holiest form of satisfaction, is then simply the application of the beautiful thing, which is art. In this realm nothing is proven, but everything is felt. This is art. This is truth. This is beauty. This is rebellion. This is nothing. This is everything. This is art.

Death, is a precious beauty.

The hang glider comes from her mountain with the water of the gods to feed the foe, the toad that linches and seethes, sticking gratitude to her heart. Why is he? He should have been, but now he's gone. Shoot the white haired lady, she feels no pain,

I want lightning, a meaning, a triumph that sells pills to me in the back of a dusty van in the night, I want white hair and a balding mind, with nothing but you and your dye.

You are the poet's parts, it covers him. I am no one, and I think you know that. You can never be with me because you are in a slow decent into adulthood and I am becoming a child. I must understand, but there is pain.

White-washed hairdresser with a meaningless smile, Call me your man, listen to the words I say. I am loud and boastful, like a great animal I scream the truth. I have no home like the wounds, come all ye faithful, words are quite clear.

I want you.....
I want you..... so bad.
It's the delta blues I couldn't ignore.
There is meaning in the, there is a saltiness I can't ignore. Where is truth and the squabble? Where is understanding and the sacred? I soak in warmth, I bask in the insipid stories of deadly man and heartache and nothingness,

Gone, like a symbol, new, like the universe. Stocking that rip under my hands, real...

Touch, a gentleness, soft, harsh, and cold, be thee alone. Call no one, say NOTHING. Jealousy manifests, liver, the hardest stone, Give me up, I truly have no use. Women are ***-dumpsters, thus sayeth the LORD. I think God's got timber in his eyes. The Great Triumph! sings like a hamster dying on a pinwheel. I really don't know what I know, but I'm glad for abstractness. There is meaning, there is anti-truth. Speak without wind. Death, pere, night, ear, truth, punk, stop, rire.

I laugh because there is no other way of ridding myself of this filth. The caress of a gentle mind comes in stages, like cancer. The ****** in the 5th key speaks with dialect and analect. Into-go, fantastical, a  spectre,

But I guess I don't much believe in ghosts.

We don't know who we are because PDA is discouraged, and anyway, you're a woman and those are scary. We need a permit for passion, it's the bureaucracy of the body, a product of the new guy. The guy that keeps questioning himself because no one else does, because meaning may not derive from the self, but from another. The sea within has shallow banks, and they crash against community. Perhaps I am right, and you are wrong. Integrity is worth fighting for, biology be ******, logic be ******, judgement be ******. This subtle society is a dystopia and if you can't see that, that's alright, I'll see it for you.

I want to destroy you,
Break you bit by bit --

Show you a Universe,
Inspire you to your death.

Inflate you with hope,
Poisoned with beautiful ideas.

Drown you in an ocean of rebellion,
Choke on religion itself.

I want to destroy you,
Until you are yourself.

Girl, reading loric! Archbishop is very impressed by the big bottle of the so - called emotional problems; The taste of love, such as cigarettes and coffee. I think i love you But I want the truth. what happened? Violence in South Africa? I was surprised that we expected the wall to fall and broke his symphony discopia to hide me. I see that they are trying to find love and replace the browser with JavaScript at any time. We all changed, I will do binary.