..What was meant was never said and what is satiable isn’t fed upon. Long to be that faun in a misty meadow, lounging at dawn on the grass, gazing upon the peaks of eternity. What are we learning and what’s with the misuse? We tenderly abuse that which we dwell on. Claiming it a love letter, when a Better view reveals(in a peeling manner) that these are just clingings of a scrotal piercing fashion. Latching to these attachments as sacraments of dependability, nullifies valued spectacality. The pureness to the core of reality and the mess is a beautifully delicious birthday cake which never ends
Taste the crap fully. The corn eyes comatosed.... stuck In between the folds of mash potato like obedience. Fuckery makes hate great again. The horrible rift established by Religiously intolerant thetoric. Reacting becomes classic. Suffocation slowly creeps in and becomes expected. The silence becomes tragic, as the first amendment is shredded into nothingness. And soon the corn eyes begins to multiply, as stinking crap blinds the dreams of its corn fed yellow eyes. Remember, fake news like corn never sits well in the tummy. Comes out at the other end. Brown chunky oatmeal, with corn eyes wide open looking stuck upon the mountains and mountains of left over **** traffic coming to a sudden halt. Where is lady liberty? My original democracy loving tv dinner Mommy. Who knows.... This is the diary of zombie corn eyes.
Next Week.... Chapter Two. When a new jacking off tax becomes a liability for those professionals tryimg to make money off their favorite part time hobby.
I am eating delicious sweet corn and chicken soup: sweet crunchy corn, soft flavorsome garlic, stringy delectable egg, tasty chewy chicken, and hot savory broth which warms my torso; I am enjoying the experience of being alive while eating.
Somewhere in a meadow Beneath the rows of fielded corn Between the sky, above a water way Where a million tiny ears are born And listening to the winds of voice To the cackle of crows driving away a hawk Living there, somewhere amongst a meadow seeded Are a thousand, growing, listening stalks All born to stand, but not to walk
It's no crime to stand. Not all are meant to walk.