The fits are fitting, face palming the constant expectation of
demeanor. Point they do, but thrive they don’t. They. They? They!
Take her soils and exude the backwash through your hands. Hold
me, or hold her. Hold us, while you salvage this life. Her discount was your
sale, but the sail left your hope in fruit’s door.
Now your ask is of salvation. Excrete your nature to grow
her garden, in her garden. As the different parallels divide, the not established
seed bears no grandiose.
It’s a barren effort; the failure of expectation. The pits
of yesterday’s laundry, smother all which you covet. Fill me and guide me, so I
can release my bind.
There is nothing their
but fits of depression. Expectations to breath in clouds of carbon monoxide, failing
through your own plugged pipe.
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