many we bleed from our mouths,
waterfalls of cherry vitality coating writing canvas,
sinking--melting--within twisted tongues,
and they're sure to ban us.

with graphite--with ink!--juicy wrists beg no mercy,
'gainst the natives with stash minds,
for our pain melts like water over leather,
yet sinks branding upon skeletons.

for we are blessed by God to bestow eulogies for one another,
as one tips from silver seat,
another awakens his place,
with picky gums and robins for teeth.

and how the ache and thirst must be great!
for the explorers must find all 10 fingers 'tween pages,
clad with strawberries and gauze,
and lips chewed off by ages.

and hollow words are gurgled by luscious syrup,
and packages droop 'neath vocabulary scholars,
O back, O bottom, O mind aches thee!
for only thousands to endure the shock collars.

for little Alice would fear to sit with our odor,
as gears and cogs steam--overheat--with vehemention,
and nights--pray tell--pray tell,
are long and arduous drinking lobes with the devil.

for four frays fancy flights!
'til grandfather croaks your retire,
and we blood-let and let leeches sink 'neath tender armor,
and shadows usurp darker.

as we are vampires--but crave the stone light,
and pour magma into our young's bellies,
so they may inherit our plight,
and ring off their tellies.

which noose may I bind?
which hand may I lock?
which tendon should twine?
which ink should I rock?

as we let, t'is nothing but medical,
as our teeth melt from mouths,
and our eyes dismiss with ridicule,
as our wrists are slaughtered,
and minds fluster through obstacles.

our hearts are obvious time bombs,
that rush to supply our cherry,
but when will the stunning twinkle cease to live on?
and be nothing but lemon balm?

O the sea we cross is made of iron--rust--and steel,
and lusts for its named called out,
for if we delve within this eel.
it'll surely be leaving no room for elders to rout.

the drive for honeyed poison excites me,
and the ache of the chew grows more,
at the thought others will see,
spin innards at the drop of the lore.

for we are the ones that wished for nothing more,
but to be charmed by crimson, and keys, and herrings,
and we pray for the pricking ore,

so the world may finally wear the pain as our custom earrings.