I think that I've addressed that I'm obsessed in forty-three other heartfelt messes. Poetry falling apart at its best is completely normal when I'm loading my cart with formal vests to find confidence in the turmoil. Tinfoil type superstition is envisioned when smoking burnt coil above ripe ****** cakes, that's what it takes when push comes to shove, **** this kush, **** this fake love. Spilling out of every teens pores, killing off through peen spores in teen ******, essence lost from the core with no reward, guessing cost is fourscore then you're out the door. ****, it's a chore living out the lore of a giver and a saint freezing in a river with fresh paint running down the face. River of life and black paint that blinds, giver of strife, it's whack, no matter what the time. Whether you're drunk out of your mind or ******* high, the paint is soon to dry over your eyes and you'll be living blind. Stick your face in the water, it's so ******* simple. Sure, it might be cold on your cracked skin wrinkles. The solution is always right in front of your face. You just got to look for it before it's too late.
Woke up at midnight and this happened.
