Poetry and hung-overs, oh it is the best!
Spiral visions on a blissful eve, bring forth a gush of remnant foods
and edible feast.
In it, a stench of yesterday’s dreams and sins.
Now i may, and i can, spill out the hatred for this unsavory guest that
tastes so great. An unwelcome flavor for an educated mind.
I dont like the look on my eyes on my blissful eve, the blood, the veins
and the unrestricted pain. I dont like the pangs of the acidic wall. I
dont like it at all. I love it.
I can hear the screams of the mind, battered it may seem though,
constructs a beautiful muse. That bangs the skull of the battered
head and seems battered by the screams of my mind. Yet it is silent.
Attentive fur standing still on my ignorant skin, awakened by the
coldness of the wind. Unusual for a summer’s eve. Perhaps the sweat,
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