If I'm getting better
Then, it's getting worse with the times

If I'm getting better
Then, it's reading between bittersweet lines
Serried and sweet

If I'm getting better
Then, it's getting better with my drowning
As I indulge in my ocean of surfing oceans
Repleting the lines and repairing the metaphors

If I'm getting better
I'm here for a good time in a badland with the metaphorical girl
In metaphysical worlds with epistles of compartments
I'm getting better, as the line keeps drowning in it's meaning
It's here and now and in the next line
Waiting for you in the extra mile in a time other than this, at least not ersatz to arson

If I'm getting better all the time
I revisit my poem again on highway sixty-nine
And write one more, in the regretful repose
Adorable and somewhat waiting for your next line
Instead of counting the faults in my words for the children falling on the earth looking for ghostless cars
Trailblazing the streets of Godly proportions, see the letter of red

Hoping they will disappear completely, but, everyone is around here
Everyone is so clear, but, so full of tears for fears sanctifying
I'm conscious of my own fears, I just hold back the glistening tears
It's a real tragedy when people are afraid of the light when darkness drives away the children of the post office pedestrians crossing the mind of my angry streets

We are in the fear of darkness, the plight is just everlasting
Pushing ourselves out of our sleep to dream of peace in our state of mind, often unconscious of what's there in immediate memory
Apologizing politely for what isn't ours to keep even though it is love, serried and sweet like our ghosts
Dead inside, because of these fears and elated harmonic motions of the spies of the motionless stars in Swedish skies dreaming of cinema, crime, and punishment for the dialing phones adding those soundtracks to their lives
Addresses, books, and phone numbers in the booth on an extra mile, waiting for a one night stand to get better knowledge about the road
Finally, we are asking strangers
The right questions, dreaming of centuries
In burnt letters and burning consciousness
Lintels and fireflies all shine in the timbre of the beating wings of flying centuries
We weren't sure of what we were doing was right, we were inventing ways to live the best part of ourselves and finding happiness in rarity
The lives in broken places, and the tears of the greater good, selling ourselves to the punishing attitudes
Optioning for realistic perceptions, and picking them from the payphone
Extra line for the ones waiting for a reception on the cell phone and the mundane conversations turn into romance
If I know love is in your house, then, I'd need the number to your street
Serried and sweet, and the pictures are enough to keep of weird fished out seeds
Love is the flower, let it grow
And these mundane conversations will turn into a passion
Talking of the romance in a time where are timeless clouds and living out our times, pursuit struggling with our free cloud