Silious950
Active Member
Once for the heart, the mess, I confess, I address, that I live in a romantic hopeless, sight, sound, touch, and sense, I'm cursed by this want for sex, the touch of the endless, nomadic, sporatic, vagrant wander for the hopeless stranded, so stressed, just wanting that girl in a summer dress, to spin at the train station, of feelings you can't let rest, vanilla scent remains plagued in the smell of being searched less, I swear my heart burns alone in this valley of the lone, consumed by my own wants, stranded at home, so much experience of knowledge of dome, not whats important, except the feeling of ones self importance, they say 2 make your whole, but why can't the 2 make more, a neverending story, of a man, a want, no more.
Courtesy of D-Verse (me)
Courtesy of D-Verse (me)