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Worn eyes stare gently at my shy privilege  
On the bed and on the bathroom counter I lost track of time, maybe two hours? I completely devoured the passion you were incredibly lacking and got a high of pure satisfaction
His carefully constructed kingdom of sand 
In sonnets all feelings encased therein
Sword in hand, the knight storms into the fortress. Swinging his blade, he strikes fear into his foes, Slaughtering them, savoring each of those blows. Spearmen pawn their poor lives for his sinful bliss,
Three hundred sixty-five days in a year, But all but one are truly un-birthdays. Days not to celebrate births, but appraise Life, randomness, occupation, career, And concepts that physically don't appear.
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