A novel laid upon my bed-frame, words fettered to the page.
The lasting imprint of faculties left rotting away.
My two piercing perceptors always lose focus at yer shoes.
Hot damn, Faulkner's work seems simple compared to you.
This hapless creature can't help but objectify.
When shackled to the Earth, what perfections have I?
Past the billowing clouds, the relentless sea,
Reflections of the mind of Hayao Miyazaki.
My hands quake. I let them level my disgrace away.
You are the source of all my anxiety in the best kind of way.
In the last shards of light scattered over the hills.
In the phantoms captured in photo stills.
Yer an emotion, a feeling, that's how I rationalize
My lack of ambition to ever be caught up in yer eyes.
No, it's not you I'll find hiding, scared, and alone.
Those descriptions are mine, hell, they're skills I hone.
Can I be so selfish as to extend my hand?
Who am I kidding, I'll have my fucking head in the sand.
Even with preparation, it's a Sisyphean hassle.
Thank you, Peach, but yer prince is in another castle.
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