Goddess.
Goodness.

My fortunes of fate-filled freedom is riddled
with over-worked words and little bits of truth.

I'm bored.
Overshored.
Freckled, and aloof.

And that should be proof of how I'm feeling.
How it happened it's only how I'm sure
that shouts at my indignants is the best way to get ignored.

Messed up,
and found in her ruffled nest of hair.

I found lightning,
made of flour, dust, and air.

So, I got up for a drink of water.
And later laughed a lot.

Because I became a herb-smoked doughboy
That smelled a lot like bergamot.

I'd be blessed if my favorite person could craft me a masterful desk.
A nest of self-respect, and pickable tidbits, pulled apart.
Not thwarted, not bad.
Not sick or covered with warts.
But the sort of self inspection that's about
touting my lack of malfeasance, and
my transient, nascent notions
who've showed up and overpositioned my person.

Captured in a facet made of perfect, diamond-cut, faces.

She sure held face, because she really was beautiful.

So, it'd be my duty to know why I'm smeared like this.

*******, I could really be.
And I could hold a candle up to see,
Shine light on what I'm really for.
And crack a solid stick of fighting over head,
for what? I'm not really sure.

Blossomed,
showed me out of  a gutter.
Spent, showed, muttered.

And bled out of me.

So, spent
unfettered.
Mucked,
and ****** up little bits.

It mattered before I felt so bad,
before I left in my spaceship.

Try it.
Please try.

I wish you would

I bleed.
I bleeded.
And knew it wasn't good.

You held my spine.
High.

Just have me heave a bit of hope filled hate.
I'm sorry.
I'm berate.

And it's only a face filled, unmentioned **** face.

My bad.
It's sad,

So go ahead and sell my up the river.

I'd rather be a salt made liver
than find out I was just a bad boy.

It's not okay.

I'm just a boy.

Make me bad.

Make me furious and sad and hold me accountable.

I'm a **** face.

Let but bull and bubble up my lid made speech.

It's okay,
but it wont' be neat.