Blue spills transcending borders rush forward in vigour pull back in cowardice cradle of life pleas to remedy the cruel irony delivered to the hands seek and robbed.
i still don't know how to write long poetry...if this even makes sense..
This ink is tasteless so unlike the desire of the pen; the hands of agony bleeds in frustration anger propelling many wastes.
Fingers many a tapping knocking on the door of inspiration; Alas ! all that remains is the dead black night mirrored in a ubiquitous cup of coffee bearing more tasteless inks wasting the passionate desire of lamps.
We are both sinners; you have stolen from me so lost my tool for survival i became a con-artist lying with multiple identities i am alive and well but i killed myself.
you'll bear the responsibility of making me this sinner.
up to open interpretation.. thievery and disassociative identity disorder..
Cursive attempts; simple words misread misinterpreted mislead every juncture appendage spins dear readers a web of confusion blame not the spider deceiving its prey.
She would be dressed pretty in rags slaving like there's no tomorrow without that bit of altruism maybe a tad kindhearted shrouded in materialism.
Fairy godmother's name is money lures her to a game of fame keeps silent of its rules.
Her beauty makes her a winner she would be drunk attention glamour pleasure.
Unknowingly games drawn to an end the clock strikes twelve; Struck her riches to rags the magic of money only lasts so long Struck her still had not find her one true love at the eleventh hour.
Sobered ran out in embarrassment left only a glass slipper.
Desolate returning to rags a druggie for fame with much hope a prince charming would remember her to find.