Roman hands
In the corn fields, your picking grain, I can’t keep my tongue I must profane. Cause it’s cold outside, your in a summer dress, causing unrest. Meet me by the stream of love. I know you are just waiting for your cassanova to come along and seduce you. I may not be italian but my hands are roman. The cow needs to be milked, so do you.
Failure
It comes when the blackness does, trailing the silence on a leash. A feeling a disgusting feeling, of loss. Of what could of been, of the reality in my mind. Broken hopes mundane ropes tightening the elusive
This
Ever since you said to me, begone my frivolous banshee, said you needed to be free, oh quite possibly. Bring myself some water on the beach, we could have some some wine as I eat a peach, but the only face I see is the one so far from me. Never thought I’d feel like t’is, I’m trapped in a black abyss, never thought I’d feel like this, so young, so useless.
Undefined
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