My Island of Self-Deceit

You’ll regret me because you will “always” stay.

I’d say “you’d,” but you love me enough to stay.

     Furiously writing, scrawling away my anger at paper seems to be the only thing I can do these days to sedate the tumult of your havoc. I’m throwing myself into the abyss as the reaver, I’ve unearthed the obsolete.

     My jaunting ascent into Hell has exposed the creative path to and of the transcendent muse. This isn’t an obsession I have found, no. Bystanding, bypassing, you eclipse the Kantian inspiration that you are and splendor me with.
     A claimed depravation of paradise lost—ha! I’ll deflower your soul and consume your entrails of entity before you become my bane. You’re not escaping the slaughterhouse of my Visceral Holocaust.

     How I’ll ever come to know your natural evidence is unknown and unharbored; your Beagle is static to approach my electric shores.

     My grains of quicksand are constantly snatching and grasping new mood rings, they love a new gossip for equal inspiration.

     The leeches of my egg bays would absorb you before the albatrosses rescued your death and replanted your evolution.

     I’m a Haiti for broken cause, you’d relish the impossible glory of fixing me and reattaching me, even with your price is right. But your selfish price is wrong, you ask of me what you’re trying to provide; I can’t change you and you can’t me. Go (back) to your quarter isle—you’re captive there anyway.

     Evacuate my ruse for your healthier archipelago, lest my undying forever flock of 2005 devour you before I get the chance to. I eat quick, you’d ought run fast, for I can be a monster of your equality.
     Pleasure in being ready.