Partial catatonia
Too lazy to lift an arm, but my eyes still dance across the room
Colorful stimuli bitch slapping me into a stupor of stoned sensory perception
I’ll only move for love: a trait I’m lacking these days
Hopelessness and romanticism dulled, faded
And countless hours of AMOLED glare!

I crave tea and the crackling of a fireplace
A place with a slower pace
I’m running with scissors and lace in the face, here in LA,
Please pardon our disgrace
Like Hollywood sex wars and propaganda art,
All marketed to a “T”;
I never dot my eyes when I sign my name

A tisket a tasket
A green & yellow basket
A weave
A tease
A pocket full of “P”s

Are you the one? The one who called my name. The one who asks for truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? The big brother always watching my back? The one to whom I will claim citizenship and proudly stand united? Is it you? My father, my god, my king?

Love is like a religion, a practice or routine. The way I have learned of long term Romance is like a government of rules and regulations. Should it be so strict, or might it be more free?

But OH! how I long for that ideal. You know, the one with psychotic eyes, gentle touch and a rampant sex drive. The perfect partner in paint.

Alas, they come and go, the obsessions and distractions.