We're not being pretentious,

But our words are infectious.

Sometimes contentious,

We consider our thoughts precious.

Tis why we write them down,

To show how much we've grown.

We wear the pride like a crown,

The meanings like a gown.

Don't blame us if we get you thinking,

It's better than just drinking.

It's the sweetest release,

In the end you get peace,

It puts the mind at ease.

So go ahead,

Let your thoughts be well said.

Join the dark side,

We're dignified, bona fide,

And entirely genuine.

They are eyes.

The eyes of a thousand ancestors

looking down upon us

watching.

It's the tingle felt in treasured troves, and you can't help but feel an insatiable hunger. You're left needing the electrifying caress of their touch, their saccharine taste. To be held and kissed by them, before performing unspeakable acts. You'll never want them to stop. The only thing that will satisfy you is the enthralling collision of bodies and souls, until you're writhing, panting, and screaming in sublime ecstasy.

Roses are red,

littered upon your bed.

They're strung with thread,

and spread.

With violets of blue,

They tell a tale of true,

Where they woo and spew,

a silent "I love you." 

"I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream.

I know you, that look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam."

Ssshh. Listen to the voice of children. Their harmonious voice glistens, with a soul it christens. Slow and lilting initially, it's all but purity, blissfully. Continually, they sing in unity, carefree and joyously. Periodically a giggle sounds here and there, with a certain flair that ensnares. A few in count, their numbers steadily amount. From one to another, a little sister joins a little brother. They prance and dance, advancing in expanse. Their ambiance gradually relinquishes it's innocence, becoming a dissonance, while hinting imminence.

"And I know it's true,

that visions are seldom all they seem."

Round and round they go, with a haunting flow that acts as a cameo. Buried beneath a fine layer of song, the slayer surfaces before long. It emerges from depths, with the breathes that seep from serpentine mouths. Slowly, as it does so, a daunting atmosphere will grow, churning and turning, burning with a smoky smolder. The beholder, owner, and source of molten heat, is the growing fleet of elite yet petite deceit. Once pristine little children, now scorching and torching, from the inside out. The solar wisps that crackle about, spout out in route to the poor girl(boy) scout. Causing a reflection reaction, the miasma that infects children acts as plasma, charging and roaring, as it torches and scorches what may soon be corpses. It's a steady flow, subliminal blow after blow. Sanity slips from the body, along with humanity and vitality.

"But if I know you, I know what you'll do.."

Whirling and twirling, skipping and ripping, their hellish sunder of skin and essence is a plunder. Friction, seemingly steaming from the teaming of scheming demons, gives birth to the mirth of a detrimental girth. One of which causes the mind to itch and glitch at a heightening pitch. As rich as it is, it's hardly reached it's limit. One would pray that it would just skim it, or trim it. Prayers go unanswered, their efforts neigh. This is the day they pay and become prey, fallen at the gateway of a female Monet.