crazyoverlord

The cops all think I'm beautiful

When they see me in The Wild

So unafraid of suffering

So tender

So mild

Voila. J'ai pensai que je jamais utilise Mon facilité avec la langue Française pour amourisement (cest une mot?) J'ai pensai que pour la dernier dix ans plus, j'apprenerdai Français pars la reste dans *chez maman* en Marseille. J'ai passe les temps avec les amis de ma mère, les plupartes des femme des moyen âge, ou le moins que femmes qui ai vingt ou trente ans...
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These Murkdonalds adverts

Have killed poetry

Ground it up

And put it in a burger

Just another case

Of meat being murder

The veil between life and death is paper thin and fear alone is sometimes all that keeps the two apart. And yet fear alone is sometimes enough to cause someone to try to leap from one side to the other. Personally I tend to think it's wishful thinking to believe there is an end to shame or suffering beyond that papier screen. Anyway. I'm of...
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There is just no need

To too jealously guard The Rose

For She has Her own thorns

And mourns alike all fallen heroes

The Author is dead

But The Novel lives on

In truth, to The Reader

Does The Novel belong

Mourn not The Author

For Her work here is done

Still, Her task in The Cosmos

Has barely begun

She *is* Her Creation

She is The Song she has sung

Like a Sad Lullaby

Twix Mother and Son

Robbed even of my Moon

By the light of her own candle

A cherished one saw my softness

My reputation ruined!

Though having finally seen it

With her own eyes

She finally comes to believe

That a man could truly be so wealthy