Mine and Yours

How come I can't get out of here? Why can I not evade this place? What dreams are unrealistic in this very realistic place? There was a time I might have seen my misery meandering with monotonous momentum. Mortem pre vivum vindicated via visions of vivacious vixens vexed with the villainy of whether she should love me or screw me. Oh if I could prattle on about the punctilious pusillanimousness of people and myself; messed up in a Mesozoic man motif. Mother, if I could only see your marvelous mirage, I would willingly wake to wondrous wiles and wild will. However, I'm asleep right now because I definitely am not texting you 5000 miles above Blacksburg...

The dark angel dawns direct decedent of delirium daft and depressing deemed the dolt for a reason neither rhyme nor rhythm could change the season in his eyes, they were blue like the frosted clouds of winter. Warm in no ways besides a forgotten wonder meandering sidewalks sweetly sipping the sweet slits in the walls that warmly greeted such a wavering wanderer till beauty bountifully blossomed from his breast no more. Perhaps the belly of the beast will bear browned apples or perhaps beaming petals will break the barriers of time and space its self. Who knows but your bubbly bent brick of a boy prays only to find some peace. Vexed at night with vicious visions of violent cacophony creasing the crest of my neck and causing my canines to collide, may I survive?

Continuous quantum interference quarterly quantifies to infinity. Querulous quandaries qualify as quaint annoyances. Questioning quark theory and quasar physics is not in my inquisitive nature but making medical mystery is mind blowing magic that mystifies my quintessence.

Analytical astrological allegories are allied with alienating abstinence. Obliterating oligarchies own their ornery princes to peons. Piety perpetuating papal impunity plodding on and on despite the dithering disaster that lasts a moment in momentous ever afters.

Hopeful, honorary gods give gifts in genuine egregiousness. Good generally guarantees a certain level of lurid lucidity. Lounging about leaves little left for latent lives. Waking to weary wonders weaving a web of whiny whimpering due to Hollywood harlots and their honey pots; heaving a hardness into the once honorable past, present and predestined historians.