Eager to move we take control,
Of the caustic ties with their ebb and flow,
Living it full without the hint of sweet remorse,
To dive right in and seizing the main course,
Carpe is what we were taught to complete the day,
So that is one of the things that we think is right in every way,
But in reality it is a lie in the methods that we feed reality,
When you keep everthing in the dark that then gives you insanity,
Even when it comes to light both deeds and sins they softly bite,
The whole of your mind in sweet delite when secrets are killing you in darkest night on sight.

Not death

Breathe slow

Past coil

Jealous?

We don't know

Sad as plain sight

Fake intents

Misdirection and dense

Regrets for tomorrow

Until the demon runs

Mind will be blank

Conscious without reprimand

Disgracing self

And projected shadows

Into millenium of words

That trick only inside

Gross and perfect

Figured somewhat insect

Fear of movement

Ready to read

Never to explore

A monster that is a bore

No true faces

Just stolen ink

Anger in three ports

Without the eyes to close

Ever so unsubtle

Render one cold

With love as slow as shell

Until they grow the verdure fungus

He stands and walks, and makes himself as hard as rock,
He smiles and waves, at beauties and babes,
Then whispers into a quiet boys ears, makes him excited and confused with fear,
Then screams and shouts on the worlds redoubt,
I do not engage in a sinful dance, while his hand holds the young boys stance,
Caressing it up and down, while the eyes set on the young boy and frown,
He rapes the young one through and through, Forgetting we are in the Twenty-first century too.

Crap, Dung, Feces, Manure, Nicotine, Poo, ****, Waste,
It never mattered to the ears just as long as it has taste,
Not the tactile on the tongue but rather the slip of the sound,
The way it dances in the air all day around and round,
To bounce off the walls and the cliffs,
Getting smaller as each corner takes a whiff,
Until the message of emotion is released,
Appealing to the hearts as never it will cease,
Sometimes clear as the springs harvest bring,
While other times it comes in discording rings.

It's that time of day,
Where all of your sound starts to decay,

What is it with being right,
When there will always be a handful to write,

Who will tell us that this piece is perfect,
Why do we need to understand if it is correct,

How is it that we just stop,
Hushing onto the last testaments spinning on the top.

The famous last words,
When you are finished with the world,
After the deed has been made,
Or the blackmail has been laid,
Following the end of the job,
Or when lives have been robbed,
This is what they mostly say,
After swimming through every day,
Some are given the sweet remorse,
While others bury the neat discourse,
Not all are clean of debt,
Especially to their revenge of death,
Because they never died,
They **** everyone they like,
For every soul they vied,
Never reciprocated they vile pikes.

The plot unravels in a place where there is a conflict,
The Just turns the **** locking arms with the Instinct,
Wrapped around a ribbon of constant struggle,
Not an inch of movement was seen to loosen the knot,
Warped under a sheet of plastic paper it carries the thought,
Caught in feet of the moment loved and boggled,
Altruid and Maltruid speaking into the world,
Reflection of mists and essences scuffled into artificial pearls,
It peaks as they peek the unended curiosity,
Whilst the mirror is fuzzing and buzzing,
Of their frail but truthful simple realities,
The key to the treasure they do not see when those eyes are in pus,
.
.
.
.
They yearn or want to call everybody an "Us".