Pale September & jagged November, they’ve been using the soles of their confusing faces again, yet she is still the egomaniac that they do adore, walk on over her and see what ya know anymore…

When they did their darn darndest to wind back each clock, brought with them a significant round of a pause full stop – the glass half persuasive and never all that empty anymore only for sweet Emily Rose – nose to the grindstone, been ringing the rhyme unquantifiably reimbursing their thirsty soulless souls of somebody better than the evil which they will still insist on saying within multi-emotive whispers

With both vigour and aplomb, a dashed derriere made mammoth sense of itself
Only the Weinstein’s have been denying it all along
They fondle her trigger then they go blaming her gun
Now how’s about that stroll that we so very seriously promised ourselves a piece of the undeniable unmatched action, bolstered elation, training to taste the brain freeze inside of you all

And if these pub brawling, crawling syllables of the lonely soldiers were really meant to stress themselves to the fullest extent then why has she been sleeping with her juvenile mind put upon fire again?

Her socks still standing, begging and asking… for a promisingly promiscuous piece of him

And why on earth have his handsome words been trying so very strenuously hard to turn themselves distantly back into insignificant pieces of instrumentally listening ear-pieces which still sting, still singing sweet delirium, at the sides of her unmade-up mind

Is Emily Rose really the girl who stopped traffic, punched these failings square in the face and sat back down to enter the shape of the race… here she is, with her Pisces eyes and her Virgo soul screaming on green-to-let-go… …

Oh, how the indifference disappears yet they still insist heavily upon flirting and inviting themselves to the size of her subterranean party, popping their brains and making sense of their intertwined curtain blinds

Searching and looking longingly outside only they fail to find for themselves anything but next to absolutely nothing all of that serenely special anymore

He let the beast back in and he’s been bouncing right by the insides of his handsome mind
But will she ever again go outside with herself? Have to, need to, just must let ourselves know which way the whistle of her sweet heavenly windswept features chooses to go… motherfucker, she left her keys in the twist of the door when we wanted some more

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