The Walrus Cannot Bellow

I am not your benefactor,
But, your extensively hiding reluctance, you are what I am,
We are all things inevitable,
Quietly morose and rubbish, sick craving,
Your beautifully frail face infuriates me so,
An ugly blessing to my oculars,
An ugly tall story,
An ugly and lifeless fabrication,
Painfully graceful voice spoils my inner ear,
Its scarred delivery like an imperious wave,
And my ridge contained tongue shuns from harsh words muttered,
Because you're polished metal who's laughing into the fire,
Misplaced heeds,
Losing it, my balance and reason; a begging request,
The uprising of apathy, cheers my dahlia merlot,
Behold impatience, for tomorrows' porcelain infirmity only lays four images ahead,
Oh melancholy headache of mine, oh lack there of, grieving powers,
Putrid assortment of lint in your knit pocket,
Mocking mirror





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