Softly curving slopping
Rounding curving softly
Oh the firm plump softness
I could tell you
You could listen
Of how it causes deep flames to interrupt
Or of how, how...
How I lost my focus
I could tell you
Or you can witness

Two pale beauties dance
Two cherub's cheeks
They make the whole
The creamy moon
I'd bury my face in its bounty
I'd devour its ample sustinance
I want it
But to obtain
That would require a little circumvention
And face to face conversation

I think of you every day
you are my mind my dreams;
you are an addiction.
I feed my need with your image
I think of you,
you.

I hate you,
so wonderfully I do;
there once was a heart
you took it
there once was a vaccum
it was filled.

Hatred, is that what it is?
Similar to love,
yet unmistakably opposite of the spectrum;
love keeps you awake
pains your heart
clouds your judgment
causes you to laugh,
to cry,
to enter a trance of passion.
Does not hatred do this?
Is not hatred a passion;
a consuming inspiring beauty?
It is.

I hate you,
no love just hate.
It is indeed lovely
it is indeed gorgeous;
Take a look
look inside;
look into the darkness.
What is the color of love?
I would like to express the opposite,
but never mind the thought
I want you to concentrate,
focus,
look please
see it?
The contempt,
the anger and frustration
the sadness and sighs.

Yes,
yes you do.
Goodbye and hello.
By the way,
I hate you.

Currently I feel empty;
I feel drained
I feel as if some soul,
some inner being,
has been ripped from me.

I'm starring at him;
his pathetic face
stained with tears and hope and love
I hate him,
and I am going to **** him with my realizations.

He is dead,
and I am re-born empty,
and a murderer.

Through a meadow I skipped one day
dancing through the grass
which the wind did cause to sway.
Filled with happiness and glee
i laughed, smiled, twirled about,
and then arrived the bee.
He stung me on m arm that bee,
but what I had done I could not see,
but vengeance would be mine.
With my palm I crushed the bug
against my arm where it sat,
and as I brushed away its guts
from my pocket I took a match.
I burned the meadow
burned it flat.

There once was a girl who I never met.
The girl I loved,
but cast not my net.

And now
all I have
is regret.

Softly silently the letter boy writes
drawing images with words
and creating feelings with his lines.
Quickly quietly the letter boy thinks
of the girl
the eyes
the lips
for whom he pens his emotions;
scrawling his visions and fantasies
his mind races by and by
each word
each line
each page.
Lightly lovingly the pencil swipes
across the parchment
absorbing the art and care
expunging from his fingertips.
Dashing daring he awaits the moment
where his writing manifests
into that for which he sends.
Not a pen in his hand,
but hers.

Have not pity for the puppy
in the box by the street;
his purpose yet to be determined.
I took him home as chosen last among others,
but first in my heart,
and my stomach.

I took the poor puppy
into the kitchen
where I lopped off his head
drank his blood
and cooked him for dinner.

So dear children
do not pity the poor puppy
whose flesh still fills my belly.
Allow us to applaud him
for complementing good jelly.