Classic

I’m a classic. The only one of my kind, and with that I take advantage of all the things that everyone else decides to take for granted. Like the seventies I am a classic in the things that I say, and me as a person. I calculate your worth, because you are worth it. For the sole purpose of the sake to say that together we spun as one, like a record. Classics. I fell into your heart as you adopted my soul. I felt my heart slipping into layers of you. Into my skin into nothing, I felt myself drowning. No longer was I floating I could feel, because I was not smiling.
      My affliction is a blatant blemish from my mouth of intelligence which my heart does not contravene. I abstain abundance in search of my own benevolence. I am left undestroyed of everything that I accompany. I am not then, I am now. I do not refer. The both of us, together we learn. Together we direct hits of the shots that split in the in betweens of us. Thoughts of our own made for thinking thoroughly lose their relevance when the night and the stars in the sky sing to me and only to you. Overwhelmed. My idea of self lies with the love that I cannot function without. My heart wrote about the reasons why I equipped myself to love the way that I grew to. My heart being something special that the both of us were used to... in all of my moments, I and my classic, we burn to the dawn and its indifferent images. I soar into my mind when entwined tears of rippling confinements splatter themselves into my alignments. My secrets are harvested and born into my soul to hide shall I split them from the vessels of this life that I live. I am a classic. Within you I spin until the feeling makes you sick. My love, a record you could never forget. Fluent fluctuating pieces of strips from passion unfolded into my possession.
Melting into my repetitive soul to my neglected existence upon sudden breaths, you’re the pianist that harps the rhythms inside of my soul. You’re what makes me such a classic.
I wreak havoc on the presents of love that wrap such gifts inside blankets, to whom wrap themselves around me. Such bundles of my own heart, such archeries of my better breath. Humbly, I am insane for the composed structures of unspent relations between me and another moment in time that I convince to join me in my mean to a beginning, rather than my means to an end.
Rather than tragic, I am an addict. A semi automatic with braided passions as my companion that annihilate my vertebra, leaving calices on my spine.
I design my own heart with rhyme, because I am the equalizer initializing fire to run away with my mind. Impatient is I…my heart hath no interest in changing; my heart has no interest in crossing over into some other form of another question. Together we spin into a number one.