I am a busted clock in a busy airport. A misfit with lucrative emotions and a mood ring made of platinum. What does that have to do with anything? Are you writing a book? Look I just stopped at the behest of the Stone Temple Pilots and agree that they were just trying to smell her; I would probably do the same only I would be the object of your desire. I CAN rub sticks together and ignite passion. I feed off wantonness and distress. And I have a big appetite.
I am there when you cagily implore your victims to relent. Then by rationalism exploit your very weaknesses and appeal to your zen. Making Girl Scout cookies from play doh.. With that are myriad possibilities with a little fermentation and a whole and the shapes of things to come. I will take credit for the good and blame you for the bad. Yeah I will steal your hanging chads. I will take those bits of contraband and let it disappear by my hand.
In my fish bowl are bubbles. They signal life and resiliency buoyed by contemplation and a silent fomentation of our baser imaginations. I am a double helix with horns. A transient being breathing gold dust and harboring jaded souls. I convince to bomb innocent people and then promise you a hit as long as you pay taxes and do as I say.
Don’t worry about watching your words because I’ve heard it all before that every hallways have a mysterious door. Portals of evanesced fury languish in the heart and I cull resentment and foment chaos.
I am a product of my environment as the excuse often goes. A person above me who wants to see me fail. They are like a decaying frost, a hydra with ethereal dreams and a constipated heart.