Complete, my petite Ms. Saccharin, sweet,

Rest your feet,

Absorb each and every breath in deep,

Each sentence you speak has the tendency to leave me trembling weak,

never did seek for outcomes of sex on the beach,

And getting this deep before the very first peck on your cheek,

definitely keeps        me suspended in my seat,

 even crept into to my sleep

Now you’re consuming all my time,

Whether in view or in my mind,

Can’t help but notice holding ya   -   is several steps closer to   -  my personal utopia

 Despite the insecurities and phobias -  that sculpted who this poet Was,

Time is young and early but i'm purely devoted  love,

And Regardless of the rational

Couldn’t have felt more natural,

The parts of you igniting Love aren’t even tangible,

So    spoken or not            boats get rocked              by my rapid flow of thought,

I get migraines, and often nights it kills thinking,

Cuz I just bottomed out in the deep end

And can’t help but feel       like   I’m still sinking,

Plummeting towards the bottom never felt so great, 

As eyes enter eyes     -       i recognize ....       my soulmate

Not exactly hand in hand but both submerged beneath the surface,

Until the awaited verdict          

 I’ll be open windows, closed curtains.

          Let your heartbeat be the rhythm in the song you sing decisions,

          Let experience feed you wisdom, You can call it “easy livin”

Propoganda punch and pummel plump pieces of positivity to a petty pulp,

First nourishment, then nausea, now it's killin me with every gulp,

Still hit's the spot, shit is hot, if it's not then i got driftin thoughts enlightening like John Locke in an enslaught of self-taught distraught hip-hop,

WHOA, WHOA, there i go thinkin again, with no ink in my pen, 

only option is to prolong blinks and pretend,

And no matter what premonition this evening sends,

studying foreshadowing clues keeps me three steps ahead,

And you struggle to follow breadcrumb destinies,

This is the "you-can't-kill-me-I'm-already-numb" supremacy

I've been wasting so much time in this complex of right versus wrong,

I fucking hate mediocrity so I force myself to write verses wrong

Righteous path, life free from sights of the past, quick! Fast!

whiplash syntax follow the predetermined task,

do what you can to earn a laugh,

even if it's emitted softly,

jittery and frayed from the coffee,

i need coffee and coffee needs me, haha half and half,

underneath the plastic wrap i am cracked in half,

half is the number i've been cursed with,

See, I'm only half to the surface,

statements like that only feed gas to the furnace,

Verses went stale with apathetic lethargy, hardly human,

Consumin Ramen noodles and flat soda,

Below the surface tension it still hurts to mention a delta in direction, descension to the third dimension,

But i have another quick retorical question,

How much longer will hip hop hop fences, and prey upon the defenseless?

How much longer must my soul doubt theses sold out socalled artists, but be forced to accept it before the artform deteriorates decrepit?

Every so often I glance up at the sky wondering why? What's so special up there that drops jaws with answers and doesn't precipitate, electricute or cause skin cancer? Why do we lick drops of love off the ground and swim in hate?

Why do we live our dreams only to wake up dead?

 Enough said, even the math nerds cheat, equipped with answer sheets, hooved feet and pitchfork in hand.  So logically i can't stand the lies, n false alibies, the battle cries are far more meaningful than the peaceful grins, you don't know the art of war until the opposing people win and you leave with missing limbs

So now i chase my dreams by chasing gin with sin in a complex of regrets versus respect, myself a reservoir set to collect the best of wrecks, This is my junkyard of shattered looking glass, when all i need is one shard to bleed the masicistic sigh of relief, self-esteem felt that the dreams were smothered by the masking covers i choose to hide em beneath, I can complete piece number one hundred and one, look back through eyes of perfectionism and argue that nothing is done, never, death doesn't even mark completion