For All Our Building

what is thought washed away really is here to stay and say things unimaginable for the weak for all the week has passed bleak and been in the mire of trouble, they say he is stuck under their breath under a bridge he sends himself to think it over to get washed away he cannot bring himself to say and confess until he realizes a few things like what is going on here he would like another beer without fear of judgement but knows what is let loose here sinks him later even if they denounce the notion set his heart at ease still later it will come back does any of it have to really come to that, foiled is the confession again ‘cuz it’s always been the booth the bar the chair where it’s needed release to a dedicated ear these delicated models we build we layer up events and discuss heatedly heartily and bring out knives big guns and come to blows all the while hoping and this is where there seems to be a difference but there is none but us men in a confessional mood should also admit that in the midst of our valiant efforts we’re hoping a lady or two or more will enter with her breasts amazing and somewhat visable saving the day with beauty so we can salivate and pause and ponder there may just be some more trouble worth getting into if only our current hearts weren’t tied up in such anguish and break washed out way out way out there in the pains and hunger pangs and what we still do not see like isn’t it ironic rapists can still look into mirrors and more so that we don’t see a connect when they break them, for all our building we often forget to number and then tear back down and though it’s even a troubled sleep it’s a sleep from which we don’t want to escape.

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