this song should be longer than one minute twenty seconds, it is the perfect blend of perfect.
zzzzzzzzzz.
fuck you school stop trying to make me write things. don't you know I need that wordjuice for porn. I should finish something. NEED MORE YASHA god I have no time anymore. should finish MiSTERY ot3 then, except only two people on my flist even care what happens to those idiots. three counting saki. four counting peach, PEACHY KEEN WHERE ARE YOU. someone please make me believe I am loved, I need concrits. my soul is jark and the night is glooming. /sobs
must finish my play so I can go to bed.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
...dude, I didn't even know you could have sonnets stuck in your head. and yet I've been repeating it to myself all day.
must be a side effect of that "being in love" thing.
fuck you school stop trying to make me write things. don't you know I need that wordjuice for porn. I should finish something. NEED MORE YASHA god I have no time anymore. should finish MiSTERY ot3 then, except only two people on my flist even care what happens to those idiots. three counting saki. four counting peach, PEACHY KEEN WHERE ARE YOU. someone please make me believe I am loved, I need concrits. my soul is jark and the night is glooming. /sobs
must finish my play so I can go to bed.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
...dude, I didn't even know you could have sonnets stuck in your head. and yet I've been repeating it to myself all day.
must be a side effect of that "being in love" thing.