snap on closed fist. Leave it up to you to screw up entertainment, the static TV, with the lights out cold plywood under the bath toes. Mackerels in the sand with your spacing of the fingers, and one finger twisted - deformed before it held hands with the branches, without bothering you...without interrupting your laughter...shoot smiles at me before a frown...inner dinner with out any butter to carve out the delicacy of your soul, soup of asbestos, and the cutting tool glides...plastic like skin, blood like red paint chipping off the walls, so much water dripping on the floors, darkness boldly guards the chairs, your eye opens and you see what resembles a silver ice pick coming from the your eye, can't blink or think...rubber mallet gently tap.. tap.. tapping...I see your shoes in the puddles, but the bodies are all out in the grave yard soaking in the dirt, which perks the larvae feeling hurt. the twitching of your little wings, all caught within some web, your insides must be dry now, and your legs must be tired... oh stop cricking oh stop chirping, and squirming around...hound in the closet with your favorite fishing boots, they resemble the early mornings right behind the early boards, with the hands touching the ear...oh back behind your ear is a shadow of the right hand, scratching off the irritations, the voices of many grainy VHS tapes.

Leave it up to you to screw up entertainment, the static TV, with the lights out cold plywood under the bath toes. Mackerels in the sand with your spacing of the fingers, and one finger twisted - deformed before it held hands with the branches, without bothering you...without interrupting your laughter...shoot smiles at me before a frown...inner dinner with out any butter to carve out the delicacy of your soul, soup of asbestos, and the cutting tool glides...plastic like skin, blood like red paint chipping off the walls, so much water dripping on the floors, darkness boldly guards the chairs, your eye opens and you see what resembles a silver ice pick coming from the your eye, can't blink or think...rubber mallet gently tap.. tap.. tapping...I see your shoes in the puddles, but the bodies are all out in the grave yard soaking in the dirt, which perks the larvae feeling hurt. the twitching of your little wings, all caught within some web, your insides must be dry now, and your legs must be tired... oh stop cricking oh stop chirping, and squirming around...hound in the closet with your favorite fishing boots, they resemble the early mornings right behind the early boards, with the hands touching the ear...oh back behind your ear is a shadow of the right hand, scratching off the irritations, the voices of many grainy VHS tapes.