A worthless instrument filled with sentiment
That is what I want to take
from when I thoroughly become benevolent.
I yearn a reminder of a version
Of myself where I don't have piercing eyes
Or a cold body
Or a stifling loathe of beings similar to myself
Or a need to curl up to a ball when pens *****
Ah fornicate this I can't write anymore
There's a hope buried in me
It multiplies like bamboo shoots entangling
It says grow thorns, be turgid
It says pop horns, stay frigid
I walk down the corridor constantly defying myself
I'm one character I think
Am I
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 3:11 PM UTC
A worthless instrument filled with sentiment
That is what I want to take
from when I thoroughly become benevolent.
I yearn a reminder of a version
Of myself where I don't have piercing eyes
Or a cold body
Or a stifling loathe of beings similar to myself
Or a need to curl up to a ball when pens *****
Ah fornicate this I can't write anymore
There's a hope buried in me
It multiplies like bamboo shoots entangling
It says grow thorns, be turgid
It says pop horns, stay frigid
I walk down the corridor constantly defying myself
I'm one character I think
Am I
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