GeaninaBeatrice

are you still savoring the taste of deceit off the edge of your limerick tongue? you know what i mean you "poet of unusual sorts," with your chaotic green eyes and skin of pale misfortune leaving scents of sweet seas when oceans begin to spite you. yes, your silent panthers, loyal only to the sound of sonnets of broken piano chords and keys and torn six-strings. those slithe things will prove to you once, that betrayal is just eight letters of pleasure undercover. it's these little beauties that will make you see; every liar was an artist and every poet was a whore, just till the point they owned you no more. ever