algebra
The Jeffersons
One hundred dead,
lay at your feet,
oh lovena
these words can just not heal,
books,
with missing pages,
or red on white
dress shirts.
I don’t get it
You recreate
Your button down,
To sell yourself
To his mechanical eyes,
Am I not blue enough for you?
But,
It’s filling,
Enough,
To take you,
Or kill your sex appeal
A new obsession,
Of dead alarm clocks,
Has wasted
One canvas too many
On your complexion.
I can’t go,
not fluently
through opened vineyards,
without your requiem,
running through my head.
an unintentional collapse
never fails
to impress me,
just tell me,
what the inside
of your eyelids
look like.
This is a break for the buried.
new tune for mj tomorrow! cya there hopefully
One hundred dead,
lay at your feet,
oh lovena
these words can just not heal,
books,
with missing pages,
or red on white
dress shirts.
I don’t get it
You recreate
Your button down,
To sell yourself
To his mechanical eyes,
Am I not blue enough for you?
But,
It’s filling,
Enough,
To take you,
Or kill your sex appeal
A new obsession,
Of dead alarm clocks,
Has wasted
One canvas too many
On your complexion.
I can’t go,
not fluently
through opened vineyards,
without your requiem,
running through my head.
an unintentional collapse
never fails
to impress me,
just tell me,
what the inside
of your eyelids
look like.
This is a break for the buried.
new tune for mj tomorrow! cya there hopefully