If I rhyme,
Maybe you would find my words beautiful,
Finding something profoundly disturbing more chewable,
Washed down with wine and cuticle,
Your fingernails scraping down my throat
Don't.
I don't.
I don't need that ****.
Maybe you would find my words beautiful.
But ugly and disjunct, sitting, freely thinking
I feel as though my train of thought has retrained it's tracks
Let's go to a place I don't want to go to.