They only use Latin to scribe what is true,
Every thought that they thought was an epic breakthrough.
Unravel the universe and earn a statue!
(They question their gods and so do you)
But they know more about reality than you.
 
Some bearded Romantics held meetings (sans you)
To compete so politely for highest IQ.
They poured out their hearts and they thought that was new.
(They want revolution the same as you)
But they know more about fighting the system than you.
 
They recite their own words in an unknown venue,
They sunglass their eyes and dress in bleak hue,
They do all the drugs that the world has to do.
(They smoke and want peace and you do too)
Yet they know more about levels of consciousness than you.
 
In thousands of years, there emerged just a few,
Good enough to be published in a book of who’s who,
They died for their art, or a cause, or virtue.
(At least that’s what’s written, it could be untrue)
Still, they know more about everything than you.
 
What makes you think you can borrow their pen?
You’re alive and well, and Now is not Then.
You’ve not been to war; you have rights like the men.
Apply once you’re dead and we’ll let you know then.

Give me back my dreams and my fantasy
That's the only way for me to live
Don't stop talking
Your voice is my favourite lullaby
As you raise your lips to reach mine  
I could taste you in my tongue
Boy, I certainly couldn't breathe
Your hands wrapped around my hips
My legs glided across your knees
Your chest against mine
Two hearts beating as one
I wish I could tell you everything I want to say
Everything you need to hear before you walk away
I'm sorry I'm not the one you fancy

My English teacher told me that my sentences didn't have enough commas. Sounds to me like she just needs some looser cardigans. I just want Swarovski crystals and silk pajamas. I want nice bed sheets and curtains. Preferably white and lacy. I want a nice little part time desk job that's only a few days a week. you see, I'm actually a good writer, but it's not straight A's on essays that I seek.

The terrifying teeth chatter into the crimson lips of a wound up smile, chattering along the very risen table top that draws all small toys to their finite dooms. While breaths sour hour upon hour, each idling ear suffocates the last gasping breaths of its epicurean syllabic tongue, drizzling down the stomach like melt water from a cubic glacier in an ornamental silver tub, and sternly quibbles the stem-like dactyls drawing rose champagne into a fissure of the brain's tumescent humming.

Each finger tips' nail rouge and red, each dry crevice sewn into the knuckles, and a leaflet on sadism near the scratchy illegible lines whittled on the topside of the wrists and the slalom runs of the ankle. The ankle sinister. The ghost-like hallow sockets of where eyes could have once be seen. Plaster and albicant-like dying death white skins forbade from the Flushing streets where the jazz dance once began. And with each nellypotted hop, three useless nuisances could not carry the bridle towards each nearly favorite sound that curiosity enslaved man to lean towards.

The women weirded out by corners, plastic-wrapped furniture in outdoor corridors, where sinners veil their retreats into state run triage centers. Fake plastic countertops built from fake plastic trees. With an M14's muzzle stiffening and shuttering, she who vents off her cured romances will always find herself flaccid on rubber knees. The disease of the plea, is once more an affectation of not falling for royalty but instead the royal we. There is this weapon of fraud that perplexes geneticists, that enslaves heterosexuals, where albeit nor the time or place, she venerates the libations that her mind creates, she lubricates her cells, dressing, her skin ripening, heaven trickling across her humble nape, where gentleness is only a fool's disease and need.

She. We. Heathens of eternity bowing our breaths in grand hyperbole see. I see she, and she sees me.

I know the place where the clouds collide
And the oars are lightning bolts
That you use to steer through the starry skies
When the milky way tide sends your cumulus boat
On a whirlwind through the night

I know the place where the moonbeams are carved
And then cast into the sky
To light your path on the nightscape sea
As you race through your nightmares
And drift though your dreams

How do you explain the unexplainable?
How do you describe the indescribable?

What I'm trying to say is,
how do I talk about you?