Inner Monologue
My inner monologue
speaks poetry spiraled in lies;
It likes to paint pretty pictures
on soiled canvases
And decieve my innocent eyes.
Never quite feeling alive unless
you are peremantly wrapped up inside my head;
your warm sandstorm eyes forever in sight,
tentatively watching my immanent demise
And leaving everything, as always, unsaid.
My inner monologue speaks
mingled sentaminets of you often;
Holds you in a false light,
high upon a faltering pedistal,
still visiable as I finally fade out of sight
to lay down cold in my velvet-lined coffin.
speaks poetry spiraled in lies;
It likes to paint pretty pictures
on soiled canvases
And decieve my innocent eyes.
Never quite feeling alive unless
you are peremantly wrapped up inside my head;
your warm sandstorm eyes forever in sight,
tentatively watching my immanent demise
And leaving everything, as always, unsaid.
My inner monologue speaks
mingled sentaminets of you often;
Holds you in a false light,
high upon a faltering pedistal,
still visiable as I finally fade out of sight
to lay down cold in my velvet-lined coffin.
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