You wanna play games with the heat of my heart – you wanna make mountains from pedestrianised molehills

Crass surrounds via my brain’s maniacal betrayal – didn’t they say that the world’s been turning on it’s heavy axis to earn it’s whole wide worth a fair while

And she sneers to suddenly whisper a stinging suggestion near my still ringing ear, pushes herself to play out one such terrifically estranged ultimatum as this : “You can somehow manage to turn milk oh so very undeniably sour, my boy.”

Her lips are built to be honest bellows of behaviour midst manicured madness
And our adolescent smiles go up in smokey disdain, while she is absolutely correct to finally refrain

They’ve been turning themselves unsavoury aside upside-down and vilified by the manly might of created chaos, but my oh my… oh why on hurting earth has the time taken tremendous stock and shocked itself into pedantic portrayal!?

Yet she was right all along, I took a wrong path altogether and bolstered my red-ribboned brain by a thing of ludicrous disdain

Never deserved the pained pomposity of this particular person who tethered her early-doors heartstrings

Seems, really, he never should’ve supposed to propose such a resolute and romanticised thing – but he does wish that it could have been oh so very alarmingly different

Because, believe it or not, he’s been meaning to matter more than anything else in this whole wide world, to matter the most

An implanted form
Of imperfect perfection, perhaps?

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