I made the mistake of believing I could change you when I can't; you don't intend to, so how could I? You made the mistake of believing I was wrapped around your finger, and would never leave you, but I will; just give me some time.
How fair was it to blue the steel clarity could have won. if not for Celsius's involvement? Fahrenheit would brighten her blade, yet subtle the temper of rash and shade. A time of second guessing to absolve the fatal ring, I time the wager to the crashing of stones assembled once again to hold your hammer. Their unnatural order, yet cannot reclaim the zeal. We talk and whisper in sorrow and/or regret, the passing of beauty astonished, fallen, before the plummet of regret.
The absence of the leap Repeats whn I fall asleep.
Rasputin's ***** is unique Preserved in Russian Museum of Erotica Thirty centimetres long One wonders To a human it belonged Mad Monk he was known 1869 he was born At 42 he was in close Proximity to the Queen Historians believed He seduced noble women His influence had grown Offence Aristocrats had shown They planned his ****** Poision, cake and wine were offered Frozen river his body thrown Preserved his **** For posterity to come Not only for its size Horrible consequence Of its misuse to be precise Warning writ large on the **** Men never misuse your stick Russians take pride over Having the biggest one Americans' presevation Of Napoleon Bonaparte's Just a 'pod' Some living ones Claiming as long as Forty five centimetres Turned out to be fake Do they consider themselves 'Donkeys'? One wonders Blue whale is the real king With **** as long as Eight feet Rasputin immortalized For his misdeeds With a **** of one foot Leaving clear message To the posterity Never misuse theirs' Or meet Rasputin's fate
To know about the Russian Museum of Erotica and see the photo, google.
A priceless piece of art in her precious gallery. Punctured with a nail, she hangs for all to see. Her creator, unknown. A man masked in grey- Took his artwork by the hand, And traded her for pay. Time spent perfecting; now long gone. The Act or Art itself had gone all wrong. The linework snakes through unknown feelings. Canvas skin, your paint is peeling. And here you sit, sealing Your patches with rancid untruths. These abused blue hues He uses so aloof. As your are hanging, with no tongue left for maiming, He finds a new soul he believes needs framing. You and she shall be the same- Abuse and misuse are Engrained in the brains Of the women he has tried to tame… But he is no artist.
Pretty pink princess with wetness Dripping down her thigh. Puddle humpin’ ***** Pumps the water While she cries. Take it down the throat and hope He doesn’t make you ride. You’re haunted- But memories taunted. Hope the feelings subside. And hope you don’t choke Playing ******* with a hard rock. Stop, you slithering snake. I provoke the stalking of the body, The watching of the skin. Pretty pink princess Soaking in the sin. Satin curtain, forced open. Moisture beaded on the fabric. Crushed velvet on your tongue- Here is where he wreaks his havoc. A blank canvas for him to abuse With bruises of all different colors. Of course I let him have it. He got into my mind. Used his knowledge that I was the Only princess of this kind.