Who told you that the color of a soul was skin-deep? That it had to lose its pigmentation in order to get a spot where you sleep Who told you that the beauty of a soul had color in the first place? What reality are we living in where hatred can just shit in our face? Who told you that we were allowed to see a soul in this way? Who told you that this was ok? That it was ok to write your self-appointed and twisted views into the book of man That you can control and play God under the one true being who created man Who told you that it was ok to sleep with...
People make laws People break laws People punish people For breaking the laws Laws made by people The very same people Who make the laws And, people study law It's crazy out here If you don't know what people are the laws they make They default still.
The vast majority of labour was unpaid. However,a few paved the way to being successful in their days. To amass and hold onto their economical gains for a century, particularly in the hundreds of centuries. These former babies of genocide. Crime against humanity,within centuries. Thrived. Despite. Their lives being once binded,in many horrific ways.
Through freedom,entrepreneurship and intelligence,became millionaires,in their days. These determined courageous individuals,paved the way for todays.
Many motes of gathering quotes "putting another nickel in" † a dark forest has come to spawned with many gnats in different suits coming to your house to roost with bone splinters of salutations like polyps of narcissistic shadows of gratuitous gadflies in one's soup groping the withered minds "putting another nickel in" † without offering a cracker... it ain't nuclear physics if one has a fly swatter
Untwist my sack and lay waste to the pain dark's going to bring you snorkeling fame † releasing my bollocks gelding my name with my gnarly old withered writing cane tattooed on my ass with a Jack Daniels stain sitting on the curb waiting for the society train to play catch up with my proclaim in my narcissistic one-seat campaign
Sheís a real mean drunk and her friends are in the club, theyíre drinking all the liquor thinking they wonít throw up. They are downing more shots, doing pot, while Iím still stuck here thinking about the hazey daze, of August shade.
Iím the real mean drunk, Yes, I am crying in the club. The bottles nearly empty, and I need to throw up. Iím feeling useless, Iím through with all of the pain from the hazey daze, of August shade.
A wilted shade of haunting discourse daunting shadow-abiding quartz warts Siding with a crooked voice and the emotes of morts Sounding a shadow of disillusion † a †victim of a twilight conclusion of the self-assuming force † Screaming, "You've Got Mail."