Language is luscious,
Lascivious and lustful.
My infantile attempts,
To adorn it with adoration,
Can only fall a thousand times short.
Wistfully I can wish,
That my words,
I will be able to harvest Its’ honey.
I have no other need,
Than to know that which has,
infinitely intrigued me,
And yet still alludes me.

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I lie,
Languid,
Festering fresh,
Sticky and sodden,
My chosen entrapment,
My shrouds,
Alive,
With me,
As I swell and shrivel,
As I leak and absorb,
I become more of it,
It becomes more of me.
As I expire,
It gains life.

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I often feel a pariah,

Not quite like all the rest,

But I’ve come to the conclusion,

I might just be over stressed.


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Occasionally I’m asinine,

To gain a few good laughs,

But I promise there is more to me,

Than lewd and crude remarks.


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I strive to be beatific,
Honestly I do,
But things always seem,
To intervene,
And get in the way of my ****** happiness.

****’s sake!

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The other day,
To my dismay,
I came across a newt.

In my attempts,
To explicate,
Off that newt did shoot.

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According to the dictionary,

Excrescences are superfluous.

In my opinion that’s rude,
​
And frankly quite cantankerous.


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