The Wizard of God.

I won't leave this city until your eyes are pretty again. Paste your makeup and glue some youth, we're stuck in this mud 'til Tuesday. Sexy boys do not land themselves in Marine Science camp, those ads are crap. 

There's a sound in a sense and a stupid text I'd like to light on fire. I'd watch it burn and in class, it'd eventually be my turn. "Raincheck, please, I seem to have misplaced my book."

We lost. Plus, we were made to suffer. Again, if I'd known it was trendy I would've waited. If it hadn't been March, it would've been November and it would still suck in the end. There's a lot of contractions, contradictions by nature, I see. Maybe I could speak literally? Ignoring apostrophe and just saying it without all this combining of consonance?

These shoes are made for slipping and that's all I've done since Friday.  Particularly counterproductive in it's essence. With such a decline, I find I've had less gratifying ideas.

I surely have?

The feature of the induction is not a paper white robe. There's a doorknob. We've melted it, though, so good luck trying to escape. Two tons of irony delivered, and we're fetching twisted insanity for love. We're in love with love, but not love itself. It's unrequited and hopeless, but nowhere near romantic. That's the awkward part. 

White robes and escape routes? Clearly, They're trying to severe my arm. Bank solid. Dance irrationally? And though regrettably, language is truly a barrier, I can still understand you. You know what I'm saying, too. 

Go balls deep. And then get off on such patriotic devices based on hot chocolate and false support. It's only cancer. It's just a small vulnerable infection within your bloodstream that makes you sustainable to every conceptual illness. I hope not only does it give you hell, but herpes, rabies, scabies, and all other veneral diseases. We never said it'd be easy, sweetie.

But we said we'd be fair. That's why. That's precisely why it throws a sardonic abstract beat poet for a loop, a square, and a triangle. Baby, these days we're all shapes. Instinctual, but I'm positive I skipped the day they handed it out. Along with an incredulous mispronunciation of figurative language, and we've all got C's because Mariah cut points from the Beloved Essay. whoops.

You're faking it, I should know. You poor, poor thing. With that haircut, and a gentlemen of proportional standards, I bet you think you're the happy one. You've heard every sentence I had against you, every tear that carpet absorbed for you, and every curse word my mother scolded me for, all for you, love. And there's nerve to walk away? Keep them. I lit all mine on fire. And I hope you see your junior yearbook picture and think of me when you notice the chain around both our necks. "Forever/Friends?" as it should be. I wouldn't even begin to guess, but I would know. 

Thought. was repressed. Condoned by catholic repercussions. And it isn't exactly religious, more spirituous, which is an ornery word in itself. You can be the distilled water, I'll be the engorged amount of alcohol. We're "gonna" mix 'em together, and they're "gonna" explode to our faces. Will you think of me in March? The eighth, the tenth, and the eleventh. It's my triumvirate. Please hold peace, some of us are approaching the climix of our lives, thanks.