Poems and short stories of amousities

Poems and short stories of amousities

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I'll go first. Maybe this will be the last. I've come to a single bit and it asked me just one thing. Really... I'm saying one thing. But that's the line that separates me from you and I know... Yes I know... That it's always there.

Maybe
O baby why maybe
You drive me so crazy
With your little candy

I wish I could snore you
And then .aybe bore you
You I just you Dore you
O baby galore you

O baby my gibay

I looked at the night sky
My eyes came out fine
At least when i looked

>amousities
The fuck does this mean?

Anyways, have this:

Pitch shift whining fridge finds itself alone and bare, but beneath it’s stainless, polished grace, and idea lurks both palpable and intimate. It’s not the form of the object, but the lives of those who interact with it that shape the nature of its course, and while my fridge holds nothing but frozen fruit and craft beer, there’s an undeniable pulse; somnambulists’ yearning. I desire freedom from the confines of my chair and my couch and my throne, but the freedom I seek is stifling because its self-perpetual. To be free from association is to be free to do nothing, and in the infinite moment of waning fall, cascading leaves only matter if you happen to look. Is it better not to be enamoured with the hustle and bustle of busy-work, fitting in by virtue of exercise and compulsion, rather than to struggle against the tow of the fridge and all the memories it brings? I can’t recall quite why I began this path, but in the end, chair-based warmth nurtures me in the painful grey midday.

A lucky old witch they may say. Hiding by day coming out by break. She had all the potions stuck in a glory whole of emptiness resonating through the existence of virtualitity. One day she caught a man and saw he had a gem. She looked at the cover and knew that it was one of the best he had ever heard. She asked him to open it and he threw it on the table.

Not a single chance.

And then she left.

Master of psychology u win the slot

As the candle goes out I hear
Faces of sages carved in stone
They whisper dawn anew
A fiery flower sings its song tonight
The first to bloom in this dead garden
Tomorrow time again will usher backwards
Into itself into tides of true lies untold

The veins of gold run deep inside this mine
The tales of old can weep with pride their wine
For what they brought us will be carved in the shape of a key
To open doors unknown yet, to light the paths sought by the moment

I ask you now, I beg you sailor
Please decypher the code written across the sand
Before the short white waves come sweeping all the land
Before evergreen forests wither not knowing what we're asking for

I win what? That was just a poem about a fridge I wrote in five minutes, I never post here. Thanks for reading it nonetheless.

But the man looked back at the table and saw that it had left...

I can't take this. Now this,,.