In the smoke, bump to the design of emaciation cultivated by cloves and cocktail and little more than bottled water to wash down your little pills, sweet serpentine and white hot thing, with the naziesch tattoo and a salon hair, an obvious trophy to hang on my walls between the gay club night, coffee shop evenings, and chilly goth dawn, elated to see me through the haze of your drunken dharma wheel, seeing things for what they really cloak themselves as, shallow in your understanding of your minuscule roll in my entertainment pursuit, drown this fucking blackened dusty soul in your boring stories, in your annoying hand gestures, in your tiny tunnel visions, fuck me on that floor, rip my fucking soul, stick your tongue inside my gaping hole, you porcelain bloodthirsty dried up pointless waste of intellectual foreskin. UGH.



Ur Turn.

Anxiety said:

U soooo want me.

Imago777 said:

it's true, i do. just like i want to have a successful bowel movement before i lay my head to sleep.

Imago777 said:

That doesn't even rhyme.

2teh9s said: