Everyone's writing of innocent love, Hushed whispers and hearts oh so pure; Their darlings are all made of exquisite gold Of heavenly bliss and allure. Wherever I look there's another love poem Writing pain that is sacred and sweet; But my "innocent love" spiralled down to the gutters And my "heart" has been long turned to sleet. ... and we've lost all direction, we're dumb, cruel and vile; and we laugh our souls out with bile. if I drag you by hair just another ten miles to our den, to our safehouse, to keep us both sane, will you spare me one last sickly smile? – or you'll throw me against window pane? (and through) Oh, I'll never get tired of this game! ( ** u )
is it an "f" or "love" as the last word? i don't know. both?
there are good souls in this world shrouded in weathered skin dry and cracked with scowls hung upon their face balancing on the scars of their brow just as there are bad souls in this world hiding under plush skin their faces adorned with kind eyes and cherry red lips made for kissing or spitting with rage
picture a gorgeous brunette with fair skin, bold eyebrows and her hair in a subtle yet nineteen-thirties style updo wearing a red chiffon summer dress the sun beats down on her as she glistens with light perspiration espresso in-hand cigarette in the other her pale soft skin no match for the thirty degree heat outside of this café she nonchalantly finds herself she is the epitome of carefree beauty
she kicked her lovers dog outside this morning exiling him to a six hour long toilet break after she "forgot" she had let him out before leaving to go shopping whilst her feller finished his shift because the dog is old and smelly and gets almost as much attention as her she even saw his pensioner neighbour struggling to take the bins out as she walked to her car and laughed rather than help because she always thought Mary was a no good Jew she even called her Mrs. Goldstein "Have a nice day Mrs. Goldstein." but Mary's surname is Cohen
picture this beautiful girl a siren leading good men astray she can get any man she wants and plucks only the finest most succulent I mean successful and well put together men from gardens of bachelors maturing in the hardships of city life she has plenty choice but she's fickle you see, her man has to be almost perfect for it to be as enjoyable as possible to watch his life unravel and unfold into everything he wanted it not to be
achievable only through toxic beauty her joy is venom soaked insides of lovers caught in a sultry web of lies, ambition and *** she loves a scandal or a text sent to the wrong person and she has everything to hide but does nothing to do so she gets by just fine being beautiful and sickening and sickeningly beautiful you know the sort she is a bad, bad girl
without heartache how would i ever know love? and if not for misery could i be happy? it is the duality that makes the one good and the other bad they each contrast one another for without contrast our painting would be colored canvas blank, totally devoid of any deeper meaning