Parched, perched to give birth.
To only ever our suitable selves, my dear.
Crap without tears sometimes – permit me
Seems we’ve been getting away with far too much
For far too long a time.
Now, how’s about you crack open your favourite bottle
Of inspired red wine, sweetheart.
And meet me…
At the end of yet another early-a.m. tender-stroke poke fun at the other person.
Place the art right back where it rightfully belongs
Scintillated to strip these filler-lips.
Been carrying something colossus inside of all of
Irretrievably irresistible we.
Appears to be, appears to me
My bleeding heart is way up there
My arse streels the found ground sometimes.
Sabre-tooth, multi-balled confusion
We’ve been rudely intruded as though ’twere all about to go up
In insipidly suggestive flame.
I blame all of these other girls who wear their needy despair via my-oh-my painted-upon pencil-skirts to hurt…
My cheating eyes
Parlayed to paralyse my besotted mind.
The stroke of midnight finally fails
To fail at realising that my love belongs to you – soon as the shoe is on the other foot.
Please let Your favourite pencil-skirt hurt these prioritised eyes
While my mind’s been blinded, binded by this falsely lit picture.
To revisit and recapture one such scripture that I linger to long for.
A real part of the realist heart.