Rhyming poems are liars. While you're reading you have to wonder if they said it because it rhymed. They can't coincidentally mean every line and it happens to rhyme? Inconceivable.
Practice makes crashes; we're perfect at it. We're purple, we're picks, we're sticks, we're murder. We've got March on our minds, let's boycott the rest of our lives, it seems to choose a greedy choice, so it's unwelcome. We kidnapped it. Zip-tied it. It's in the back with the seats pulled down, a gesture so familiar to me. We're just stealers, theivers, teenagers, lovers, haters, bakers, candlestick makers? Well, we were. We were finite, finesse, and death.
The ghost of a stone sculpture holding a protractor in front of the Mormon church. You're Krystal Meth, I'm vexed. I see a guitar pick around your neck; that's sick. He's bassist, and fascist, I hate his guts, at last. At last, you've responded.
I'm cruisin' for a bruisin' and that's exactly what your dishin' out. I give up. The Triumvirate Fracture is slowly approaching, I need to forget. Forget forgetting, forget to remember, forget you. I've got labels for purchases, groups, cliques, and people. It's bizarre, I know, but I'm stranger.
Rogue, awkward, whatever. We're still the same old kids just living for a break. We'll take what we can. You're my best friend, my worst friend, my girlfriend, my boyfriend.
I have delicious delicacies in my own little reality, I'll stay here, thanks, and leave you to that other world, where cool is clearly ostentatious, and teenagers are getting pregnant, and poor people can blame the rich, and the rich just get richer. And your best friend can take twenty-four hours to decide she hates your guts. Where girls can change their hair if they don't like what they were born with, and boys can take pills for the same effect downstairs (you know what I mean...) and this is the place we call home. It's nice, if you forget the price we're paying. Lovely. I'm staying in Mariah-world. Join me, there are baked goods involved.
When you're addictive, you're insatiable. You're a parable, a caroler, cajoled, agile. It really only makes this harder. Stop analyzing it, just enjoy it. There's a beautiful place out there. Granted, it's covered, imposed, impounded(?), surrounded, and accosted by city structures and functions. But it's there, I swear. Won of their wars are fighting within it. If you ignore the streetlights, I'm sure the dim skeletons of souls and decomposed organisms will illuminate themselves for you. I'm proud, you've opened your eyes. You finally saw everything I've been attempting to smash through your brain. And since you're done rejecting it, let's hymn our way to the crops.
Action, it's significant for sex and work-outs at the gym. I'm imagining things I shouldn't. The first house on the right or the top floor in the tallest building for sights of seeing. We're fleeting. We're fleeing? We're leaving, because it's over. And we've left for lost and most of all, we're gone because it's ended with a dismal closing credit.
