suffering through my perfection.

we've

well i've


got an endless supply of sustainable energy.

use me like the sun to warm your bones and light your streets.


with a smile i'll set the world ablaze

make chaos and madness from your order and neat.





your naked body is a canvas for me to do with it what i will.

your helpless need for pleasure laying on your back my call to arms.


the painted streets, glazed in blues and whites, stripped clean of their chill..

will be blossomed in deep reds and hungry oranges. colors much less prone to cold harm.






the river of blood and time have dried into nothing but a snake path of sand.



i've run out of flamboyant analogies.

lost a taste for my spacing, and for a rhyme scheme.

and now suddenly am free of all the things that bind up your writing.



i know you can feel it.. passed your joyous illusion of simplicity and freedom,
you've got that unquenchable yearning each time you take pen to pad so to speak..


to say whatever the f**k you want.

to write exactly what the f**k you want with the ferocious intensity you reserve for your intolerable rants..


just set it free. put it down. get away from that pre conceived notion of what is good or not good. and let. it. go.

in the meantime suffer through my perfection.. because i can't turn it off.