My writing sometimes feels lacking in taste...
I feel as if I reach less of you, because I have no grace.
I contemplate using my vast vocabulary, but words are scattered.
In moment's of frustration, they don't even belong...
Humidity, creates a hot sticky day.
Like a dirt devil tornados destruction and hate, Lot's of hate.
My feelings are these...
My life, and air thickened by debris.
Discover the beauty in my flaw.
Caress my lips in my most magnificent finest rage.
Lucifer my Brother!
Send me your serpents tongue, so I can impress and astonish everyone.
Allow my peers to feel my fear.
To frolic about my consistency.
My endearing, malevolent mouth exhausted with praise to hostility.
Surrender me the potency to mesmerize, to satisfy all who read.
For I regret I succeed in resonating ignorance.
Please realize the beautiful despair I'm in.
The agony, and all the sin I contemplate.
I'm often frolicking in my very own abyss, and I prefer to share the view with clarity.
My reality feels effortless, and absolutely simple.
Like a Neanderthal battering a rock, like cartoons, building blocks and punching walls.
I am lost.
I am lost...
Dare not believe the individual conflicted is nearly as basic as the mania wrath within.
I can be graceful and alluring with only my scribble.
I need not flaunt my physical being.
I can make all of this pandemonium harmoniously, sing.
I can come across to you as someone well taught.
But this Fucken Rage that Bipolar devises...
It originates from somewhere pretty **** crude...
Sweet sly words I can convey.
But sweetness and appearance isn't anything I care about, when I feel this way.
I'm raw and my writings is too.
So please continue this journey Down Rabbits Hole with me, because there's one thing I'm certain...
It's a hundred percent real.
It's on point, and exactly what I feel.
I always write with emotion. In most cases, there's little signs of intelligence.