The rally of the tit and eagle

These nights i forlornly wonder how things may have been different
maybe if i were more witty or even more drunk,
it's all in the eye of the beholder

verily i often think about the possibilities,
perhaps.

your smile fucking kills me, it does, it really does

god i wish i were more of something , the aspect that i lack is frustrating or maybe even exasperating depending on the day
"i'm absolutely captivated,
positively elated"
while the hangman does his job, the recipient often wonders about the loopholes while avoiding the obvious reference, as i am skirting the object i wonder if a direct approach would mean anything or possibly hinder an "inevitability"

to become illegible is to understand there was nothing to convey in the first place, the gardener wonders if the azaleas are just an azalea or perhaps something more to the theme of the trite inanimate object

what is beauty?
what is preference?
what is this horrible grin i have after constant realization,
what is this rejection after constant realization,
why is it that things must become a rhyme and nothing more,
if it even becomes that in the first place.

in the first place the runner sprints towards the beckoning finish, awfully arousing the lonely babushkas watching from their familiar confines within their own carefully planned rough house

i am disgusted with myself.

i look at what i become, what i am doing
and it's goddamn ridiculous.
this isn't art, this is a fucking confession






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this will never change.