A slow serenade of pianos and birds,
solemn, broken voices caress
lonesome souls wandering the world
endlessly in black print dress.

Hands softly touch carved ivory,
[dark and white].
So easy, so effortless, and without disdain—
never false honesty, an unfaked feeling of pain—
a specter, an angel, clad in beautiful light.

Hair flowing like wolves under moonlight,
lips colored cold, pale wine.
Eyes drowned in a weariness pulling
magnetically, hypnotic in eerie delight—
a hopeless promise of paths entwined.

What's hard about being honest?
Let them know that it's a contest
True love will only win the race
Like the turtle at a slow pace

Tell me how you really feel
What's hard about being real?
It's not about playing games
Feelings have to be the same
Not exactly but be true

If perception is deceived by one
Then step back and send them
Elsewhere on their path

Most want a character unfaked and pure
But how can we be so sure?
Think you found the "one"
That it's not just for fun?
If so, and that's what you want too
By all means, you do you

What's hard about this game we play?
I don't really want to play
What I want is genuine in existence

I want solid ground
I want intrinsic value in the flesh
An undeniable flame
Games put to rest

it can really mess with a *******'s
head,
     when she takes, authentic, pleasure
from her work,
  because it's a "work" debacle...
god it hurts a *******,
      when she realises that she's
enjoying her "work"...
             nothing more belittling
     that the ******* dearmed -
            with a kiss,
                and an unfaked ******...
see if you can find a copernican
     perception inversion in a brothel...
because when **** hits the fan,
       you know there's no fan-boy bound
to the vicinity for miles around...
     as ever, i agree with freud on
the matter, and i'll argue the existence
of the madonna-***** complex,
just as i might have a hard-on
ready and waiting,
               when the woman isn't
toying with a *******
                   snow white syndrome...
an expression of affection,
                  worthwhile the hour...
beyond that?
                       puppy tears,
               and manga grief eyes of
the dilated pupil...
                 works most of the time,
unless, of course,
you find yourself standing under a street
lamp, admiring the gentle
fall of snow...
          god, most ****,
               in der nacht,
                   wenn es schneien...
but you really can't stomach the paradox
of a ******* that doesn't fake
an ******...
                     you peer into:
an authentic pain;
                and she will tell you...
because when she can't act,
      she has suddenly ingested
a guilty, pleasure...
                elevate the expression
via ouch...
                        then start speaking
bulgarian...
                     pride & worship on my behalf,
attempting to tender her further
by kissing her hand;
for each and every knuckle,
and the space in-between...
     show me hamlet's skull
         romance, or rather:
    st. augustine's soliloquism -
i'll spreschen the same scheisse
with a *******'s hand...
       for as i already testified:
  there's nothing more ******,
                 than a woman's hand;
my, my pretty geisha mimic.