Like the Glint of Cold Steel
He smells like the moon, gone and
crisscrossed. With eyes trained upwards
and footsteps grounded in the sky,
he walks amongst the dishonored.
You are a noose around my neck,
cinched and multiplying to the point
of intensity. My words can't justice it,
can't remember the freshest of air.
My least favorite misspelling is noone
no one who says noone can ever be my friend.
There's no reason for it, insanity which probes
along the dark side of life. Like ethereal points
pinpointed and slipped under the covers.
There's too much sugar in this drink.
I'm a moron.
I'm rambling
I'm a song, ending.
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