How I like waking up,
looking at myself in the morning,
no, not at all, in a sorry prediction,
your little amazing event commences,
that never seems to finish delivering presents,
or a sharp closing of my lurid curtain either,
so its cracks don’t splinter back,
into our sensitive moist skin.
I got my own private darling each day,
to passionately lead me across these cold floors,
as we dance wildly through our tempest,
while smearing cosmetics within its various grooves,
along torn flowery sheets, heels, and jewelry,
mopping afterwards for an added lesson,
when Hell’s army is always trying to sucker you,
over an iced tea praying beneath the television.
Now honing in on why I’m wrong again,
small changes trapped under the march of time,
adversely feeling every socket’s puncture,
blazing trails in chaotic sprays of directions,
neither remaining around a good length,
driving above hard bulges and between sad wrinkles,
relayed from a series of embarrassingly intricate accounts,
posing a chance to learn joy and punishment’s secrets.
Sharwrong's Song 