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The itch.
The craving.
The beauty of love making.
So soft, so tender.
The beauty of its mender.
So lost.
No fazed.
Why do live this way?
It’s fast amusing.
Intelligent.
Yet confusing.
Why dose it just use me.
Come back let go consuming.
The strange I know.
But I just keep pursuing.
It feels good.
The reject.
Keep rolling it.
You feel it?
Connection the deception
The art of repetition.
But when I try.
I just cry.
The heat has left us nothing.
When you get upset.
I try to face the reject
Melting on my shoulders.
And it feels good.
The nothing.
The sensation feels like something.
When I cry.
The sky dyes and crumbles in to nothing.
Which is something.
The art of repetition.
Confused I can feel it.
Just cutting.
The happiness that you bought me.
When it melts.
It feels good.
The art of repetition.
I feel it just rotting.
But it feels good.
The beauty it’s displaying.
Complaining.
Displaying that you like it.
That I’m worthless.
The act of repetition.
But it’s dying.
It’s hopeless.
The burning.
That you bring.
You crying out
Ignoring.
That I’m sleeping.
When I start.
Kicking and fussing.
Don’t blame me for my waking.
When it just keeps on bleeding.
Just watch it brake away.
The reject on my neck.
I let it keep consuming.
The loveless.
Body.
That it produces something naughty.
But it’s nothing, which is something.
But you said it wouldn’t hurt this time.
I'll never let you cross that line again.
I leave you with something.
I'm just left with one less nothing.
Do you feel good?
When you take it.
Did you feel my hate when you stole it?
I didn’t like it you "came" inside it.
Came in something.
Came in side me.
I emptied my cup of your reject.
You mutilated me.
You said it wouldn’t hurt this time.
Dose it feel good when I'm crying.
When I felt you came inside me?
Had to do.
Had to say.
I should have ran away.
But instead.
I keep my place.
I ******** hate that place.
My something is the act of repetition.
Some how I was made that way.
The something she bore me inside this wicked place.
She didn’t like it.
It didn’t feel good.
The act of repetition.
She the product of putrid craves.
Mindless repetition is fowl in every possible way.
Mindless repetition is fowl in every possible way.
Mindless repetition is driven by incomparable craves.
In incomparable ways.