Do I make art is or is art making me is this really all death or just my awakening?
This creation needs destruction, my pride in abduction, promises broken like a heart in jar glass joining gravity against my steeple
I can no longer see the beauty in people. this world in orange alert, my love is inert.
Resurrect what has died inside and feed the pleasure center, gratification abuse, and reward system lust.
Your existence is a work of art, teach me how you were made, euphoric passion and loving at its most, with a force considerable to boast.
Pheromones emitting, desire growing. Your sought after being in my embrace
Tasting you sweetly, dripping with enthusiasm and sapping away your sorrows, this is the factory of lust.
Zealous, beauteous, fraudulent lore. What else more could I simply endure? My unclothed body for you to adore? I've come to find I was quite fond of you, and perhaps we ought to rendezvous. Supple kinetics and amorous action to the fruition of climax. Is this romance?