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 **** 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.