#writinggoodshit

The weakness I'm from Doesn't hold me a grip It pushes my ankle Then asks why I tripped While I see spikes below me It's really a pit Thats swallowed of half me The rest is composite

I'm the making of I'm the work in progress I'm the poster child Without a TV promise I'm a half written contract Signed by my tongue I'm completely honest And shocked that I'm not drunk I'm four lines over what I need to say And I'm a hollow year from being a break And I'm nowhere close to, what I think I am I think I'm nobody As far as nobody understands

Brad began to tear at his shirt sleeves whose tight grip around his broad biceps was the only thing holding Lisa's eyes from feasting on the secret she had been hoping to uncover for three years, spelled out in inky, forthwright lettering in swoopy lines across Brad's inner arm.

Too impatient to wait for Brad's biceps to batter down the walls of their linen prisons, Lisa began undoing the buttons on her long, velvet scarf, driven by blind need to satisfy Brad's hunger for quality foodstuffs with the directions she could utter only without the restricting fabric wrapped around her moist mouth.

Brad nearly froze his enormous thighs in grief when he noticed that Lisa's scarf fell away from what he expected would be a beautiful pair of full, red lips stretched together into a singular entity of unnatural repose, as if the two had given into their lust for one another and decided to bond.

Lisa ripped Brad's arms off and threw them in a river. 

"You were never human," Lisa said. "Humans don't look for perfect. They look at the imperfect and find beauty."