If I could bed the wench, would she not want to wed and wrench my will to love the lovely flower that is so only to fade into the night as fashions flow and fancy takes flight?
I like it... but did you know your writing style is suspiciously like that of the serial killer BTK? Consider:
Oh, Anna Why Didn’t You Appear
T’ was perfect plan of deviant pleasure so bold on that Spring nite My inner felling hot with propension of the new awakening season
Warn, wet with inner fear and rapture, my pleasure of entanglement, like new vines at night
Oh, Anna, Why Didn’t You Appear Drop of fear fresh Spring rain would roll down from your nakedness to scent to lofty fever that burns within, In that small world of longing, fear, rapture, and desparation, the game we play, fall on devil ears Fantasy spring forth, mounts, to storm fury, then winter clam at the end.
Oh, Anna Why Didn’t You Appear Alone, now in another time span I lay with sweet enrapture garments across most private thought Bed of Spring moist grass, clean before the sun, enslaved with control, warm wind scenting the air, sun light sparkle tears in eyes so deep and clear.
Alone again I trod in pass memory of mirrors, and ponder why for number eight was not.
I like it... but did you know your writing style is suspiciously like that of the serial killer BTK? Consider:
ReplyDeleteOh, Anna Why Didn’t You Appear
T’ was perfect plan of deviant pleasure so bold on that Spring nite
My inner felling hot with propension of the new awakening season
Warn, wet with inner fear and rapture, my pleasure of entanglement,
like new vines at night
Oh, Anna, Why Didn’t You Appear
Drop of fear fresh Spring rain would roll down from your nakedness to scent to lofty fever that burns within,
In that small world of longing, fear, rapture, and desparation, the game we play, fall on devil ears
Fantasy spring forth, mounts, to storm fury, then winter clam at
the end.
Oh, Anna Why Didn’t You Appear
Alone, now in another time span I lay with sweet enrapture garments
across most private thought
Bed of Spring moist grass, clean before the sun, enslaved with
control, warm wind scenting the air, sun light sparkle tears
in eyes so deep and clear.
Alone again I trod in pass memory of mirrors, and ponder why for number eight was not.
Oh, Anna Why Didn’t You Appear